Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Show Tunes

My parents had a very limited music collection. Two Pete Seeger albums, a Four Tops album I never listened to, two Christmas albums (Burl Ives and Goodyear), Debussy's La Mer, and the soundtrack for My Fair Lady. No one ever had to out My Fair Lady on the turntable because I whenever I was alone in the house I would a) do somersaults in the family room and b) sing all the parts to My Fair Lady.

I love show tunes. The only other genre that outs as much effort into the words is musical satire. When I found out that the library loaned out albums I brought home every Tom Lehrer album and kept them out for half a year. (Also, I just checked: I still remember every word of The chorus of Vatican Rag.)

So, there's this new show out there, Crazy Ex Girlfriend, that is essentially a sitcom, but twice an episode they do a musical production number with clever lyrics. I think so far this one's my favorite:

 

I would recommend it. Now that the female lead won a Golden Globe, I doubt it will be cancelled. If you can tolerate the commercials, you can go to CW.com and binge watch the first eight half hour episodes.

The Sun Is Setting On Tuesday Night

Days like today I wish I were an emotional person, able to fling myself wholehearted to one side of a debate or another, instead of someone who keeps asking why. "Why?" is not a good question to ask today.

There are images I want to forget. I want to forget the livestream of Michael Brown's mother, crying for her son in front of the Ferguson Police Department.

I also want to forget the image of her husband comforting her, then yelling, "Burn this bitch down."

I want to forget the image of police officers wandering about while a store is actively being looted.

And of course, the images of all the looting and arson going on last night.

I really want to forget about the split screen of President Obama's comments contrasting with the small group of looters running like hell down the street to attack a police car.

And then, I think, why did the Police leave an unmanned police car sitting a block from the police station when they have a huge parking lot?

I really want to get the image out of my head of a black protestor standing across from the police line last weekend yelling at the officers, "White pussy is the best. You got a daughter? I'm gonna rape your daughter." (I think this might have been what prompted the police to write in their report that the protestors were exercising their constitutional rights and insulting the officers.)

I spent way to much time trying to work out exactly how long someone should lay in the street after being shot. Evidently Officer Wilson says people lay in the street for hours all the time. But how many hours? First the dispatcher got the call wrong, the examiners were at another scene and there was a skeleton crew, the photographer needed new  batteries for the camera, the crowd thought the people there to take him away were the police and wouldn't let them on the street that was only open from one side because the police had blocked off the other.

While I was trying to clock out what an acceptable length of time would have been, I shared my thoughts with Gary and, Lord, you would think I'd turn to stone. Horror. "She lost her son! That's all you need to know!"

Well, I wish.

My inclination leans toward the Browns. But then I always think, "On the other hand." Always. there's always the other hand. If a man with a gun says get out of the road, yes, get out of the road. On the other hand, this weekend a Missouri State Senator just argued with a carjacker after he pointed a gun at her. I did not know this was an option. On the other hand, I don't want to blame the victim.

Ha! Captain Ron Johnson is at this moment calling for us to use reason. No! It sucks! No fun at all. There's no catchy chant for "On the other hand!"

Then of course, I realize that if you keep looking from one hand to the other you never get off your butt twelve miles away and march with the right side.

All I know is, I keep going back to Wikipedia to see what made the LA and Watts and Detroit riots stop, and it seems pretty consistent: the National Guard and police start mowing people down. Of course these people will be unarmed, and the Guard will be threatened, and that's what started it all.

Riots, Again

Greetings From St. Louis. I was at a bar last night and the conversation at my table and the table next to me was Ferguson. Some day I'll tell you about all the pies we've been baking, but in keeping with the Media it's all Ferguson all the time.

The Reason Why We Can't All Just Get Along

Youthful testosterone. That's why we can't have peace. Police perched on their tanks swinging their ... their automatic weapons at the crowd. Calling the crowd "fucking animals." Scary testosterone. Young men the same age, different skin, throwing bottles full of machismo. When I saw the video of Mike Brown intimidating the store owner, I thought, "He'd make a good Ferguson police officer." My mind is at rest, now that I can blame all the cocky young men, armed and unarmed. 

I FInd A Lost Love on the TV

Years ago, a friend brought some barbeque to Elliot Co., and it was a pork steak. Not the fatty cheap pork steaks you marinate in Bud and put on the Weber. This was a  porterhouse of pork. When I asked where it came from, he said "Red's." I drove all over Natural Bridge road try to find them, and couldn't. The internet gave several locations, and none panned out.

And of course, watching the coverage this week I saw the sign for Red's Original Barbeque, checked with my friend, and he said, yes, that's the place. So when we all go back to Ferguson to throw money at it after the unplesantness is over, I'm headed for Reds.

When Will It Be Over?

I did a little research on riots and was discouraged to read they are over when the National Guard comes in and shoots people. Then it's over the next day. They've kept the National Guard at the command center so far, thankfully. Someday it will be over. Antonio French will be move to Ferguson and be mayor, bottle-throwers will be given a badge and a paycheck, and there will be peace.

Or it might be over if the grand jury speedily indicts the officer, but I don't think that's going to happen.

Immortality

Just the other night I had one of my delightful dreams about Mom. And, as always, a few minutes in it occurs to me that she's dead.

"Wait. Mom, didn't you die five years ago. Remember? The hospital and the hospice, and the mortuary wheeling you out the front door?"

"Oh, you crazy kid. You must have misunderstood."

Every single time. Always this silly death thing, just a misunderstanding, what are you talking about "dead," who's dead, you crazy kid.

So, essentially, Mom is somewhat immortal. I keep conversing with her in my head. I know that's what the people with the babies sometimes say: they want some part of them to live on after they die. But that only lasts a generation or two, unless people have the babies to continue their DNA, as a little personal eugenics experiment. 

Of course I can't deny there's a chance for immortality in the afterlife, seeing that Mom conversed with her baby brother, sister, and mother waiting for her. Neither dead father, it is to be noted. And technically not her sister, who was off praying for her. It seems odd that in the afterlife you still have to go someplace special to pray. 

Of course, I'm busy paring down all my religious beliefs. Back to reading the Gnostic gospels and the Nag Hammadi texts. In the past I've been able to maintain my belief in God because of the sense I had at the church of an external force speaking to me. I was thinking about that and remembered that I interpret my depression the same way, a "voice" outside of me. So if I'm making parallels, either the church voice is God and the depression voice is Satan, or both are evidence of mental illness. 

Then again, if the church voice was mental illness, it certainly was brief. I know there's a type of epilepsy that triggers the hippocampus and people experience religious visions in lieu of seizures. 

I don’t know. Hey, can you tell I’ve weaned myself off my medicine?

 

DONE! Basement. DONE!

The before:

The after!

Look at the air! The vacancy! The stark nothingness!

Everything I own now fits on one wall.

The past twenty seven years. I'm like a freaking Buddhist, man!

The pure of heart can see Mom in the corner, approving,

Honestly, I feel like I just bought a new house. We still have to assemble two more sets (the ones on wheels). They'll be filled with nothing, at first, and then in twenty five more years I suppose I'll have to do this all over again.

Concert

A slightly freaky thing happened at the concert last night.

Gavin DeGraw, who we agreed was the most engaging of all the acts, got teary musing on stage about the Connecticut killings.

He said how outraged he was. The crowd applauded in support.

He said he was angry. The crowd applauded in support.

He said "I consider myself a Christian." And after a moment the crowd applauded. In support? It was weird. It sounded like: Clap if You're a Christian. (Jesus will come back to life if you all clap really hard.)

He went on to say again how angry he was, and just left the Christian thing out there. But it felt like when New Jersey is mentioned on Letterman, and everyone from New Jersey applauds. "I consider myself a Christian." "WOOOOO! Christians!"

Percent

I keep having this conversation with co-workers.

Coworker: "All I know is there are too many entitled people out there. I don't want somebody with a cell phone taking my hard earned money to buy themselves video games and then buy steak with food stamps paid for with my taxes." Then inevitably, they go on. "I know all about it. My [cousin/half-sister/niece] is on the dole and she is playing it for all she can get."

Well, sure you have a bad opinion of those on the dole. Of the poor people you know, 100% are gaming the system.

I understand how they feel. 50% of the people I know gamed the system. My brother is still on disability and is truly too unbalanced to work, but my father could have worked all through his ten years of disability. Now, granted, his work fired him because he got cancer, and Mom wasn't on disability, so they might have felt there was a disability credit in their names. I got a semester's Pell Grant out of it too, so there's my complicity.

But, if you average Dave and Dad, I'm from a 50% Welfare Queen family. (I'm a Welfare Duchess.) You'd think I'd be on the fence about fraud, and I might have were it not for the visit Mom took us on to see one of her cases. Brown meat and flies in the refrigerator. They were actual poor people, where the average fraud rate is nine percent. Just nine, not 50 to 100 percent like you see in our middle-class families.

Pro Tip

Is your Mom dead? Don't watch Brave.

You are welcome.

 

Utopia

A few months ago, one of Gary's aunts was diagnosed at the Mayo Clinic with a peculiar ailment: small-cell lung cancer. Evidently this form of cancer mimics neurological ailments: deafness, muscle weakness, trembling, and so on. Gary's aunt went through numerous doctors for years before she went to the Mayo Clinic. They gave her months to live: a few monre with chemo and radiation.

Then, she went to the Utopia MediSpa and Wellness Institute in Clearwater Florida, Purveyors of Holistic Bullshit. The diagnosed her with "a virus in her immune system," and they recommended hypobaric chamber treatments and lymph node massages.

Gary was maddened by this and stomped about and called them charlatans. That's probably why when his aunt called today with good news from Clearwater, he didn't come in and Wilma took the phone off speaker.

However, she was so enthusiastic about her diagnosis and her weight gain and all the encouragement she's been getting from the staff that Wilma put her back on the speaker phone. Soon I had to leave the room. Otherwise I would have demanded, "Who says they have a 90% cure rate? Oh, the staff at Utopia." "Who says you can still smoke when you have 'an immune system virus?' Oh, those nice nurses at Utopia?" "Who says you're gaining weight? Oh, the scales at Utopia."

I swear, I would be less crazed were there a brochure for the families of the terminal patients that said, "Utopia, deluding your loved ones until they die happy." Fine by me.

I know myself that having a good attitude can increase your health. I see why she thinks having chemotherapy will decrease your health. I see her point of view, and it isn't even any of my business. I know how my family treats end-of-life scenarios. "Three months to live? Off me now already." (That was a dramatization.)

I stayed away until the "Praise Jesus" sounds died down and they were off the phone.

Not my family, not my way, not my business. Grr.

I'm So Excited to See Sorkin-Porn Back on the TV

Remember that one episode of The West Wing when President Barlett "solved" Social Security behind the scenes in a secret bipartisan assignation? it was porn. Aaron Sorkin took the spotty ugly government and made it porn.

So now, he's taken breaking news and pornified that too. I just watched The Newsroom.

I heard some journalists giving this show an all-around "meh" on Reliable Sources this morning. They claim it was not characteristic of a real newsroom. Of course not. It's fantasy news.

And, here's the hook (and if they do this every show I will have to get out my vibrator to watch this show), at one point in the pilot they get the news flash that an oil rig has exploded in the Gulf, and then the screen shows the date the BP rig exploded. And THEN - and let me outline why I like this: they (I) dramatically re-enact the (II) breaking news (III) from behind the scenes (IV) pornographically. There were the money shots of impassioned speeches about Edward Murrow and objectivity, and that's what I want to see.

No Fun Here

Number of tests for his heart and lungs Gary has had so far: 2

Number of tests that have come back with good results: 2

Number of tests scheduled in the next 2 days: 3

Number of hours of sleep I've averaged a night: 3

Number of times I broke down and cried at work today: 5

Number of years I've been married: 27

Number of times Gary's been really sick so far: 0

Number of copng strategies I evidently have: 0

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

Number of really good cries I've had? None. I need to get to bed and have a good cry or else every little thing at work is going to make me fall apart again.

Failure Faux Pas

Recently, Gary was complaining about how he will be laid off in a matter of days (he won't) and he'll never get another job (he needn't), and eventually he trudged off in moderate to high dudgeon.

I thought of supportive things to say, and my train of thought went: 1. He really gets a lot of self-esteem from his job, 2. If he didn't have his job he'd feel like a failure, 3. He needs me to be supportive.

So I came out and said, "Hon. even if you're a failure I'll always love you."

"I know what you're trying to do, but that extra little jab of 'FAILURE' there was not what I needed."

I told him some hours later that he was a very successful husband. But still, the damage had been done.

What is going to happen to this man when he retires? How do you keep a retired man's self-esteem stable when he doesn't have daily victories and acclaim?

Where Was the Whooping?

A President of These United States went on the news this afternoon and said same sex marriage was okay by him.

And when did I hear about this? GARY told me when he got home at 8. I had turned on CNN for a few minutes at 7, MSNBC was on momentarily as well, plus I had Twitter on all day. But I had not heard.

Davy Jones dies and I hear keening across the office. This was big news too. No one wanted to do a little dance for the gays? No little visit to the cubicles of similarly minded people?

I need an app that will CALL me when presidents jump up on the bully pulpit and preach, even to the choir. Next thing I know he'll be saying "Yeah, pot should be legal," and I'll have no idea.

Rights

While I tend to lean hard to liberal, I always try to judge how far I can lean before I capsize. The current political debate is all about a woman's right to birth control, and if Catholic employers should have to pay to insure birth control.

Some events in my life influence my opinion (which as usual, lean liberal, but not enough to drown me).

Doctors

In the 70's, Mom's OB-GYN refused to prescribe birth control for her because of his religious beliefs. I'm sure she waved goodbye on the way out. Poor thing was physically unable to flip someone off due to the polio. 

In contrast, my Mormon doctor casually suggested I research the mechanics of how my birth control (Zovia) works. Come to find out, it is abortive. Many fertilized eggs have slid down my teflon-coated uterine wall, and I hope those cells had a fun ride. I may be wrong, but I don't think life begins at conception.

The non-Mormon gynecologist prescribes it to me, but if the Mormon doctor refused to, I'd either use another method or find another doctor. Mormons! (Shakes fist toward Utah.) This leads me to my next story.

Rights

In the late '80s, I went to a conference at the WordPerfect Corporation in Provo, Utah, and I tried to find a coffee machine. No coffee machines, no soda in the cafeteria. (Mormons! Everywhere with their caffeine-hating ways.) They weren't going to be flexible, so I was. I drank milk.

But even if the Constitution had Article11, The Right to Drink Diet Coke and Caffeinated Beverages, I still couldn't invoke my right to caffeine. Rights only apply to the government. Congress shall make no law withholding caffeine. WordPerfect may do what it wants.

And my god, my boat is tipping over to the right, but the government shouldn't be telling a religious organization to pay for my birth control. That's a huge conflict of church and state.

!!!

Okay then, I think all drugs are to be provided by the government (woo, boat leans left again.)

Sure, we should be a civilized society and provide free education and free health care supported by taxes. But will that be top of the line education and health care? No. (Will we end up with health care districts like school districts? Hm.) Take my pricey drug. Even if we had universal health care, that drug won't be covered, no matter what. Gilenya isn't going to be available to, say, the prison population. Too expensive, life-saving or not.

On the other end of the life-saving drug spectrum is the cheap drug the government should cover, the contraception. It protects me from a disease called having children. (Latin: habens infantes). And if the government covers it, I can insist on my rights, and I bet I could pick it up at the library and the post office.

Or, maybe we could have a cheap birth-control specific government insurance. Rest of your insurance pays for non-controversial stuff, then there's a lifestyle rider for pure baby-killing contraception like mine.

 Men

If the contraception debate was in the news just because the only people in the Senate debating contraception were men, well, duh, that was just moronic.

Not Talking About the C Word

Gary and I went for his MRI / MRA today. The MRA is evidently to check his brain arteries. I needed to drive because he can't drive during the day anymore. The light seeps into his brain and saps his strength, poor guy.

You should hear our house in the morning. "I can see the sun coming up! It's almost dawn! I gotta get out of here before it's light." Like living with a vampire.

We showed up at the big building at St. Johns marked MRI, exactly where we had been told to go, behind the David C. Pratt Cancer Center. A few minutes in we were told we were at the wrong building.

"Oh. Should we be at the David C Pratt building then?" I asked.

"Yes," the nurse said, "The David C.Pratt CANCER Center."

So we drove to the building with the CANCER sign. I checked with that nurse that we were in the right place, because no one here has CANCER.

"Yes, the David C. Pratt CANCER Center; that's right."

While we waited, Fredbird showed up with a replica of the World Series trophy. Gary nudged me and said, "That must be for the kids with CANCER -"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT CANCER!" I almost screamed. I didn't. Because it might have upset the bald people getting chemo in the next room I could see out of the corner of my eye.

So, evidently they keep the high-tech special Migraine MRIs in the CANCER building, probably because St. John's doesn't have a special Migraine building.

Yeah, yeah, that's right. No one here has cancer. Because you don't have cancer until they recommend you see an oncologist.

This Just In: After Oakland, Denver

[SPOILER: This post isn't going to go the way you think it is. ] 

CNN is now reporting the police are shooting pepper spray and mace at the Occupy Denver protest, precipitated when protestors wanted to "get inside the capitol."  This is on top of the Oakland incident when police fired tear gas canisters at protestors. One of the people injured was an Iraq war vet.

Here, you can watch a video of the vet's roomate describing what he understands of the situation.

Here is the most amazing part. The roommate says, "They were on a peaceful march and the police officers started randomly pulling protesters out of the march and arresting them when the protesters started throwing water and paint at the police officers."

"Randomly." Sir, I do not not think that word means what you think it means. You sound as if you are unfamiliar with cause and effect.

Let me see if I've got this right. Protesters throw things at police. Police arrest protesters. I would instead have said, "Police start started deliberately pulling protesters out of the march." Not "Randomly."

Civil disobedience is usually met by the police by civil arrest. Then you sing spirituals in the pokey wagon, or, if you are a celebrity, call your publicist. This is the course of events. Civil violence, on the other hand, is met by violence.

Here's what I don't get. I was in a riot once. Not for any good reason like Occupy Indiana University, but because IU won the college basketball championship. There were too many people, and they were very drunk, and my boyfriend used me as body armor as he ran through the crowd so he could stand in front of every camera he saw.

After an hour, the police arrived. Fine. It made me feel safer, really. They got out of their patrol cars. Great! Then people began rocking the patrol cars in an attempt to flip them over.

"Bye!" I said to my boyfriend.

"Cool! Look at those idiots trying to flip that police car! - Wait, what?"

He stayed and was excited to report later that the police in the riot gear arrived soon after. And I'm a little sad the police didn't try to mace him. Because when fellow rioters attack the police, you leave. Nothing to do with rights of assembly and civil disobedience. Stand up. Leave. Bye. Iraq war vet, maybe go up to the people throwing stuff and tell them to cut it out. Then, don't let a tear gas canister hit you on the way out.

Now we have Denver, and the protesters went from assembly (our right) to civil disobedience (trespassing on the official building, for which a person should be nobly and passively arrested) to whatever fill-in-the-blank violence provoked the mace bombs.

See, I told you it wasn't going to take my usual liberal turn. Fight the Power! Fight the Man! Lay off the police, though!

Leaky

Leaky stomach:No matter how many antibiotics you have taken, read the insert. When they tell you to take the antibiotics with food, do. My stomach began bleeding Thursday night. Not pleasant at all.

Leaky bladder: Sigh. I choked again at work Friday. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. I tried. If I'd been wearing protection I wouldn't have gone home. Only half the volume burst through the gates, so I'm making improvements. I happened to have a pair of jeans at work, so I was able to change. That's the silver lining.

Leaky eyes: A number of times this past week I've noticed my eyes leaking. Suddenly there will be water at the corners of my eyes and even on my face.Odd.Then, I review what I was thinking about and it is usually something sad. And when I consider something sad I'm usually thinking thoughts to cheer myself up. ("I had jeans at work. I wasn't as bad as it could have been.") 

I remember the days when I could just sit down and have a good feel-sorry-for-myself sob. (I remember at least two.) Now my eyes are rebelling and crying on their own while my brain plods through these coping strategies.

(Oh, and here's another bright spot: Pain free PT this week. She figured I had enough trauma with the urodynamic test, so she took it easy on me.)

I Interrupt My 9/11 TV Viewing to Write This Post

Yes, I am spending another 9/11 watching the replay of NBC's 9/11/01 coverage. I do this every year. This year though, I know why.

Answer one is the rational answer: because it was amazing. History. Unfolding right there on my TV.

Answer two is the emotional answer: because each year I watch it, I can compare it to the way it felt the first time.

I recently re-read the blog entries on my Mom's passing. I don't feel like I'm wallowing in Mom's death: I don't feel like I'm wallowing in 9/11. I know some people are at the "Get over it already" stage of grief, but it's a process.

Each time I see the planes hitting the building it's a little less terrifying, not from the repetition, but because of the time gone past. Some day it'll be the 11th day of September and I'll say, yep, I feel nothing. Some day I'll read over Mom's death and think, nothing here either. Until then, I'll "wallow" in them both and gauge how far I've come.

We lived through that fear and sadness? Well, good for us. Amazing.

 

 

To Tami's Point. Let's Discuss.

Tami looked at the Cooper post, and commented:

"Hey, that guy had family members who knew that he'd committed the crime, but the people who loved him didn't turn him in while he was alive? Huh!"

So I wondered, what could a family member do that might motivate me to turn them in? I thought I once heard Caroline (#4) say that if her kids committed a crime like, say, treason, she'd turn them in. I believe she later recanted that, or qualified it, or something.(If Rebecca or baby Andrew ever read this: This does NOT mean you can overthrow the government.)

My Mom once suggested I play dumb about something if the government came asking any questions. I was an adult at the time, so I said I just wouldn't answer the phone. However, if Mom killed anyone I'd cover for her.

So, here's my list. Two of these people are dead, so their crimes are cremated with them. (I'm kidding. There were no crimes.)

Money crimes if the victim is a corporation or government
Mom - I'd keep Mum
Dad - I'd keep Mum for Mom's sake
Dave - Sigh. Yeah. I'd keep my mouth shut there too, as long as it wasn't something insane, like half a million dollars. He won't be getting married, so I'd anonymously give back any money after he died
Step-relatives and in-laws - I might not turn them in. But, I'd wear a wire for the corporation.

Money crimes if the victim is an individual
Mom or Dad - Aw, jeez. I'm weak. I'd probably pay the victim back in anonymous gifts out of guilt. Of course, the police would find me out and then say I was complicit in the original crime. Aiding and abetting.
Dave - I think he'd leave so many clues and talk about it so extensively that he'd be caught without any help from me.
Step-relatives and in-laws - I'd leave an anonymous tip to the police. I'm noticing a trend here. Watch your step, in-laws!

Manslughter of an individual
Mom, Dad, Dave - I think I'd get to the point that I'd tell. That would make me crazy. Another family, wondering what happened to their relative? I'd never be able to talk with my family again. And if I turned them in, I'd never be able to talk to them either.
Step-relatives and in-laws - Hang them. I'm on the phone with the authorities.

Murder of an individual
Mom - I'd run like hell and get away from Killer Mom, but I wouldn't turn her in.
Dad - Oh, I'd turn him in. Mom would turn him in. Dave would too.
Dave - I think I'd turn him in, but then lie and say he was off his meds so he could plead insanity.
Step-relatives and in-laws - Huh. I wouldn't back up an alibi, but I'm thinking, could I put an in-law in jail for 20 years. Someone Gary cared about?

Mass Murder
Mom - Turn her in
Dad - Turn him in
Dave - Turn him in and form a club with the unibomber's brother. I draw the LINE at mass murder!
Step-relatives and in-laws - Turn them in and go on Piers Morgan.

I just realized I didn't include Gary in this game. Of course, I'd help him bury the bodies. I can say that because Gary is far more ethical than i am.

In Which I am Shuled in Jewish History

I've been mulling this blog post over since it happened about a week or so ago. Two days ago, Marcia said, "I wouldn't put that on your blog." Hah! This isn't Marcia's blog!

(Marcia doesn't like offending people. DISCLAIMER: This blog post is offensive.)

A week or two ago a team leader gave a long account of how he killed a spider by putting it in an oven.

"Ug," I said, "Like you were in a concentration camp."

Marcia, who is Jewish, gave me one of those "Christ, you are a moron," looks and said incredulously, "They didn't burn them alive. The ovens were for cremation."

I had to give her the bad news. "Um ....  I heard they didn't waste bullets by the end of the war, and they burned people alive in the ovens. They found fingernail marks on the roofs of the ovens."

Thankfully, Susan was also at the table to back me up. "I've heard that about the fingernail marks too."

Marcia said, "Well, maybe I'm wrong. I've never heard of that."

I said, "I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be sorry! I don't know everything."

"No, I'm just sorry ... you know ... about the war." Don't mention the war.

Of course, I still believed what I had been told in school, and there was an even more compelling argument: the joke about what's the difference between cookies and Jews.

Cookies don't scream when you put them in the oven.

Offensive. Even offensive by my extremely lax standards of offensiveness. So offensive I did not proffer that as an argument against what Marcia was telling us at the time. Especially with a team leader there.

A few days later, I caught Marcia by the elevator.

"I have to tell you this joke, It's relevant. But it's awful. Really awful. No, I can't tell it."  Didn't tell that joke under TeddyJ's roof.

Then I did further research, which was difficult because questioning any part of they Holocaust means you have to dance among the land mines of Holocaust denial blogs. I restarted my computer every time I found I'd touched one by mistake.

I did find something about people being burned in the ovens in a school Instructor's Guide, and then I thought maybe I'd heard about it during the unforgettable half-hour my class watched Night and Fog. That would explain why Susan was so convinced too.

Night and Fog is a grim half-hour documentary on Nazi atrocities which I saw in junior high. (See the link? See Night and Fog WITHOUT COMMERCIAL INTERRUPTION for $1.99! I'm sure it's on Hulu too.)

Night and Fog segues from the visuals of fingernail scratches on the gas chamber ceilings to discussion of the ovens, and I think that might have confused my thirteen year old self. I would have been dazed after seeing dozens of dead skeletal naked men (many not circumcised, as I notice now). (I'll bet you anything the Ferguson-Florissant School District no longer shows Night and Fog.)

So, my research did show me people tried to break out of the gas chambers with their fingers, and that one camp had a gas chamber with a floor that tilted and slid the bodies right into the crematorium, but I'm focusing instead on the happy news that the reports of oven deaths had been greatly exaggerated. I told Susan first, and then I told Marcia she was right. (Of course I told her the cookie joke. She covered her smile with her hand.)

And you know what? Discovering millions of people were murdered but evidently NOT really that many made into soap (more happy news) makes it more horrifying to me. Because the atrocity stories are what distance us from the Nazis. "Sure, we fed the Japanese rice with maggots, but we didn't throw them into ovens." "Sure, we killed those people in Abu Girab, but they froze to death, they didn't burn alive."

So tonight I go to sleep feeling a little more like a Nazi. Or at least dirty, like one of the German citizens who boycotted soap.

Happy Fourth of July!

 

UPDATE: Sister Karen Saves WIlma's Life

Because Mom had such limited arm function, she established early on that if she said to do something we kids had to do it. We didn't do everything she said, but if it was a physical order like "clean that" or "pick that up" then we didn't question. Mom always knew what Mom wanted. This is why I am so gobsmacked when my father and mother in law say they want things a certain way, and the S______ children don't do exactly what the parents say. They question their parents! Their parents! Who DOES that?

Karen in particular, questions her parents' decisions, and it usually appalls me. For example, this past weekend Wilma began having chest and arm pain that she attributed to indigestion. Karen called Wilma's doctor and scheduled her for some heart exams. If I took such high-handed behavior with my mother, my God. She would sprain an eyebrow arching it at me.

And of course, Karen's behavior saved Wilma's life. 90% blockage in one artery, 60ish in another, having double bypass tomorrow. As you see, I am very optimistic that it will go well. The doctors were very clear about what her other option was.

I told Karen she could poke her nose into my business any time she wanted.

(I'm also very happy I've never had indigestion to the degree it afflicts other people. So far I've heard of mild heart attacks feeling like indigestion, and of course many full-term friends went to the hospital with indigestion and came out with a baby.)

So tomorrow morning, Thursday, she has open-heart surgery. (She needs to be in shape for Saturday's Rapture, of course.)

Wilma is just a lovely lady. Think your best thoughts for her.

UPDATE: Surgery only took three hours, and she's in recovery now.

Putting Mom In A Box

So, I'm finally sorting through and gleaning out and tidying up Mom's papers. I had whittled it down to one box, but then this weekend I realized I had four locations in my house where there was just one box of Mom's stuff. (I found all four Mom-caches searching for a cost basis for the last bit of stock I sold this year. Cost basis, I say. Having your Series 7 makes it very easy to fill out your taxes.)

Still, all four boxes o' Mom are assembled on the hearth. File folder labels have been made. Stacks are on the table!

EARLY MOM
DEATH FILE
LETTERS FROM MOM
LETTERS TO MOM
FAMILY HISTORY
MOMS WRITINGS

Of course, it takes forever because I keep seeing scribblings in Mom's hand. There's a letter dispensing my grandfather's estate, and next to one dipensee's name Mom has written, "I have no idea who this individual is." 

I think I can be motivated to get through everything if I tell myself I can sort through and read all the letters when the rest is boxed up.

This sorting and organizing phase was kicked off by doing my taxes, of course. My goal is to get it all straight by the time I get my refund.

Earthquake

I woke up after my weekly Great Lie-Down (I used to make it to Friday, now it's crept to Thursday) and saw on Twitter - an 8.9 quake?

I remember watching Earthquake in the '70s with my Dad, and he scoffed, "A 9.0 earthquake? That's absurd. That's impossible."

But, those are early numbers. Five people have been reported dead, for example.

And tsunami warnings for ... well, let's say it, Big Dot and Hattie and and Greenwords ... and, well, everyone but Missouri.

UPDATED: Resolved: Charlie Sheen is NOT Batshit Crazy

Dr. Drew professionally posits here that Charlie Sheen is bi-polar and having a controlled manic episode. Probably, but, perhaps Dr. D is wrong. Perhaps, Charlie Sheen is just too good at articulating what he thinks. Let's diagnose him as over-articulating. TooFineAPoint-itis.

I can relate. BNL fans sometimes over-articulate.  We are word fetishists and we express ourselves not wisely, but too well. Read any on-line review critical of BNL. Where most fans would defend their band with ...

"UR retarded!!! My band rulz!!!!!" 

... we comment, "Tell me, why are you dismissing the textured leitmotif in the third track?"  (Also, we say shit like "posit.")

And we aren't more passionate about our band than anyone else, it's just we sound more passionate because we weave into one sentence all the synonyms for "awesome."

( It's what inspired this scene from Community. Just go right to 3:16

And yes, the next week they said Pierce had been following BNL all summer. Keep it up, NBC. We like the attention.)

So, BNL fans over-articulate. Similarly, rulers of Middle-eastern countries over-articulate.  While an American politician might say, "I refuse to give in to these protesters," Gadhafi would say, "I want to die here as a martyr. Libya is the tree, and we have watered this tree with our blood."

Granted, Gadhafi is crazy, but maybe not as crazy as he sounds. Perhaps he just over-states his case.

Then, on to Charlie Sheen. Is he crazy? Or just really good at expressing himself? Let's look at his words.

"Last I checked, 'Chaim,' I spent close to the last decade effortlessly and magically converting your tin cans into pure gold."
This does sound like Libyan rhetoric, especially with the taste of Anti-semitism there.  I would have to stay up late crafting that "converting your tin cans" sentence, and he just rattles it off. Is that insanity? Or is he a poet?

"I'm sorry, man, but I've got magic. I've got poetry in my fingertips. Most of the time--and this includes naps -- I'm an F-18, bro. And I will destroy you in the air. I will deploy my ordinance to the ground."
No, I'M sorry, Charlie. Sorry you never got together with Maya Angelou and punched up Phenomenal Woman.

(On how he got sober) "Decide that you’re going to, and do it. It’s not that complicated. Just decide that you’re going to harness the power of your mind.”
People did sober up before AA. I think that might be how they did it. Is that crazy talk?

I'm just saying. Over-expressing. Putting too fine a point on it. Middle-Eastern Rhetoric. I wonder if Charlie Sheen likes BNL?

UPDATE: ===========================================

Here's an excellent quiz. Who Said It, Charlie Sheen or Muamar Gadhafi?

Offensive Commercial

The TiVo has been protecting me from commercials, so I only saw this tonight during the SAG awards:

If you don't want to watch the above commercial (and who would blame you) it depicts a variety of women of childbearing age picking things out at a store stocked with items like "Trip to Paris" and "Buy a house" and A Stork Bearing a Baby.

It's nice to have choices, the commercial says.

They suggest that childless women had a choice, and we chose stuff instead of babies.  They imply that women who desire babies and can't have them  would be consoled by a trip to Paris. I've been to Paris, and it was lovely, but nothing compared to a baby for someone who wants one.

With apologies to the gays for stealing their slogan, the desire for a baby isn't a choice. It's just who you are. A better interpretation of this commercial would be two stores side by side, the Stuff Store and the Baby Store. I'd wouldn't look at the Baby Store any longer than I'd look at Forever 21. Some women would never leave the Baby Store.

I know this commercial is tweaking my memories of being too expensive for my deadbeat dad. Is it just me? Am  I the only one who finds this offensive?

Dueling Doctors and Dentists

The Neurologist (or, "Just when I thought that I was out ... they pull me back in")

Remember last December 16? Spartacus was dead. May Spartacus hang long on the cross at her leisure instead of visiting doctors. Well, Spartacus was called down from the cross. 

The nurse told me, "To stay on the trial" [read: duck the $4K a month price tag] "you need to make [the trial doctor] your neurologist, and that means you have to come in for a 'new patient' appointment."  

So, today I had ANOTHER neurological exam. Ran directly into a wall this time. And now I find myself with two main neurologists, because I still like my other one. I'll have my new prescribing physician and my old exacerbation physician.

The Dentist (or, "Just when I thought it was in ... I pull it back out")

A few years ago I lost a crown in a bit of chewy brownie. Somehow, by the end of that day the dentist had not only glued on the crown, but had cleaned my teeth and "cleaned my gums." A gum "cleaning" is a gum "scraping" when the dentist isn't dealing with a teary baby.

This time a salted caramel took out the same crown (now tucked a a lovely embroidered hankie in my purse). I don't want to have dentist above glue it back on. I have fouled the nest, as Mom would say.  I have burst into tears at least five times at that dentist. I have sobbed and raved and they think I'm crazy. (Oh, and they think they can sneak an expensive gum "cleaning" past me.)

That's why I made an appointment with Friend #3's dentist to glue the crown back on tomorrow. Yet, I haven't turned my back on the old dentist. She always handed me Kleenex all the times I cried. I'm sure it never bothered her, only me. Here's what it boils down to: I'm ashamed.

So, two doctors, two dentists. Bring em on! I can take on two gynecologists too.

2010 Recap

My resolutions for 2011 ... are you kidding? 2010 was perfect. Why would I change?

It was ideal. Perhaps I just have a selective memory.

What I Selectively Remember about 2010:

Travel
I went to Paris
... and Louisville, where I stayed at the best hotel in the US
... and downtown Saint Louis, where I had a very nice view and a room of good friends.
I jetted off to New Jersey all on my own.
I visited my brother in Albuquerque.

Concerts
Three BNL concerts
Doobie brothers / Chicago
Ingrid Michaelson
Steven Page
Litlithfair
NOT Cake, because of the dog surgery

Personal Accomplishments
Series 7
Series 66
Finished the clinical trial.

Economizing
Paid for this February's trip to Miami with frequent flyer miles.
Did my own yardwork this year

Physical Changes
Lost 20 pounds. (Gained back 6. So, lost 14 pounds.)

========================
After going over the blog, this is

What I Didn't Remember About 2010:

Travel
Visited Bloomington IN

Concerts
Eddie Izzard concert
Chelsea Handler
Loufest
Guster
Chuck Berry

Personal Accomplishments
I stopped making Babka.
I made Pie Cake, Pie Pie Pie, and Meat Pie.
I used a bidet.

Economizing
HAH.

Physical Changes
Optic migraines! No pain, though.
I had a pseudo exacerbation after the Chicago concert.
Fell on my knee. Also, fell on my head.
I got that Benign Psomething Positional Vertigo thing. That's still there.

So really, the things I don't remember aren't that bad, just not memorable compared to the good stuff. What a good year. Only downhill from here.

Facts and feelings

Last night I was watching Anderson Cooper almost tear his sexy grey hair out over a conversation he was having with a birther. By chance Gary was watching the same thing in another room and began screaming.

You can skip it, or you could watch it below, or you could visit this link. It is amazing, just to watch Anderson walk the polite tightrope.

It reminded me of the saying that you can only fight facts with facts. True, but what about the situation above? Congressman BirtherPants says he has documents, but clearly he has more feelings than facts. (Clearly. You can almost read it in a thought bubble over AC's head.) Fight feelings with feelings?

Let's say Anderson dropped "Where did you get your data, sir" and instead responded with, "What would happen if you were right? Would we remove Obama? Would Joe Biden be a better choice? What if he turns out to be Muslim, too? How would you feel about that?"

I know I've had many conversations with people when I state a feeling, as this man did, and people try to respond with facts, as Anderson did.

My Feeling: I feel guilty for helping my Mom die.
General Factual Response: You did what she wanted.

Well, yes, that's a fact, and I know it, but my problem is a feeling, and reason no longer always trumps emotion as it did in my younger days. I am old and weepy.

Here's another option:

My Feeling: I feel guilty for helping my Mom die.
Touchy-feely Response: But, aren't you glad you had a chance to help her when she counted on you?

Now, I hate to say it, but that would change my feelings.

So, fight feelings with feelings. This is alien to me. I could have used this tonight, and I missed my chance.

Gary: You HAVE to see this scene! It is the BEST scene. Sit down and watch this with me!
Me: This is that scene in 2012 where LA collapses? I've seen that. I have to study for Series 66 which I take day after tomorrow and I have to brine this chicken and I have to get up early for a meeting.
Gary: NO! Sit DOWN!

I missed the fact that Gary wasn't stating a fact, and I countered with facts. I should have said, "I miss you so much when I have to brine chickens and study for tests. I wish I could cuddle with you on the couch all the time." Then perhaps I would not have had to wait out the ten minutes I was required to sit and watch special effects.

Sad Hoarder

Aw, man. I brought a guy to Mom's to discuss clearing out the remaining flotsam.

Any flotsam Dave or I might want has long been claimed. This leaves a house full of spoons and occasional tables, rolling carts and picture frames, a living lesson on the difference between antique and vintage.

To take this step I had to admit, "Nothing in this house has value to me." I can't get past the other hoader hangup: surely this has value to someone else.

No.

He gently rambled through the house, with runninng commentary."Well, that's a TV and VCR, but flat screens are so cheap now no one will buy it. And a VCR ... even poor people have DVD players now. But, is that a vaccuum cleaner? That's the best thing I've seen so far. That'll sell."

I heard myself doing the hoarder replay, "Dave got that Major Matt Mason doll because our father worked at NASA, but he never played with it." Luckily, I stopped myself there, but I could have given the whole Jerry / David reunion story.

I did not say, "Stop, we must stop, I'm feeling agitated." So I'm not a total hoarder. But, it made me sad to think that things Mom found so useful (like the toilet-plunger device she cobbled to help her brush her teeth) won't be used by others.

The Cool Breeze

I had just a lovely day.

This morning was devoted to a work seminar I helped organize, and it turned out really well. Only one or two hiccups, and those hiccups didn't diminish anyone's training experience.

All afternoon I studied for Son of Series 7: Series 66. I have been trying for two weeks to pass just Chapter One and I have failed daily. I fear it might be the lack of junk food.  Tomorrow I bring fetal carrots to work; that's the closest I get to sugar.

That was the only black mark on the day, however. Someone thanked me for something I'd done for them. I bought travel money belts on Amazon and was able to answer yes when Gary emailed me demanding to know if they were Rick Steves recommended moneybelts.  I took 21 pushpins home from work. Marcia's boss asked if I was stealing them, and I answered, "Yes."

And finally, the best thing to happen today: It was 78 degrees when I went home, and even better in the shade. I went out the first time in months and weeded the garden where Mom and Dad's ashes are. An hour before sunset, the wind rustled the leaves in the trees and whispered, "Autumn."

Hello Autumn. I know you'll be elsewhere while I'm tromping through Forest Park at LouFest this weekend, but it was so nice to see you again, just for a moment.

And the Backlash Continues

I don't blame the Universe, really. I was sitting at my computer a day ago. I typed, "great job ... almost no bills ... no unmanageable health problems ... good friends ... Paris ... birthday."

I should have known there would be a backlash, and not just Steve's blog.

Monday we got the results of Mac the dog's yearly physical, and he's in renal failure. He's going to die, it's just a question of when. We'll know more about the "when" Friday, after he goes through 3 days of renal flushing at the vet.

Oh! Is it August 10th? It's my birthday.

Yes I passed!

Feel Free To Skip This Post ...

... because it's one of those anniversary "why I love my husband" posts. I always skip yours. Uh, sorry.

(This is coming out 2 days early because Monday, Official Anniversary Day, we have agreed to call the cable company and get the cable problem resolved, and we dispute what is wrong with the cable, and we will hate each other at the end of the day, so it would be hypocritical to post it then.)

So.Why I love Gary:

He Is SO Ethical. Gary doesn't download music or software unless he's paid for it. He buys a soda at any fast food place he's had to visit to use the facilities. He won't let vendors buy him lunch. I was a pure spiritual Southern Baptist girl when we married and he so assumed the moral load for our family that I can drink and swear and know we are covered.

He has Ruined Me for All Other Men. I have this fear that if I ever have sex with someone else, they will expect me to do more than just enjoy myself until I eventually bellow like a rhinoceros.

He Is Never the Same Two days in a Row. It's the way the humidity in Saint Louis affects his brain. Some days he's sharp as a tack, some days he's "crawly" and cranky, some days it's really humid and he can't think in a straight line and he is the most agreeable person alive.

He's Always There. No matter how bad it gets, he doesn't run. You wouldn't expect it, but he's excellent in a crisis.

He's Very Romantic and Open and Honest and Just the Opposite of All Other Husbands You Read About in Redbook.  "What are you thinking, honey?" I never have to ask that. He lets me know what he thinks, sometimes for hours at a time.

I was looking at wedding photos today. And I realized that when the photos were taken, I didn't know half of the reasons above. I will think of that Monday when I put on my wedding dress (unzipped),  get on the phone, and listen to my husband argue with the cable company.

I Cry In Public! Enjoy My Emotional Pain.

Here was my night at the ballpark. The ballpark elevator operator said, "Ooo, you're in the suite." The elevator occupants tried to supress their envy but could not. And that was worth the price of admission. Which was nothing. La la LA. From there the evening went downhill.

I walked into an air-conditioned suite with an incredible view and a 2 to 1 boy to adult ratio. The boys ranged from 1 month to 12 years. Two dozen boys, one dozen adults, plus one quiet girl who hung out with her mom and didn't play tug of war with my fallopian tubes.

Everyone was playing with their little boys, and discipling their little boys, and counting to three with great portent. It wasn't that I wanted a little boy of my own, it was just that EVERYONE ELSE had a little BOY AND I DIDN'T.

(Everyone else has a pony! I wanna pony!)

Then the cutest of the little boys, whom I have met before, came to me and said:

"Blahgunr, arpurnt erm on my hand!" And he showed me his hand. It looked fine.

"I'm sorry?" I answered.

"Blahgunr, arpurnt erm ON MY HAND!" And he showed me his hand.

(Uh, beg pardon?) "Say that again."

"Blahgunr! Arpuuuuurnt ... errrrrm ... ON. MY. HAAAAAAAND."

I found his Mom, and another Mom, and neither of them could understand him. And that made me think I'm not such a helpless freak. Maybe I could play Mom for a minute.

Then that same little boy began running in circles and ignoring his Mom barking at him to "Stop!"

"Stop!" I barked. And he froze. That was awesome. Until Gary pulled at my elbow.

"What are you doing? You can't yell at that little boy; he isn't yours! What is WRONG with you?"

(Don't touch the other girls' ponies! What is WRONG with you?)

THEN as I blinked back tears, the circle-running hand-boy brought his cup of ice to Gary, and gave it to him, and Gary knew to go put water in the cup. Stomp on my guts little running hand-boy! Thanks! (He didn't thank Gary for the water, I know, I watched. His Mom might be reading this. FYI, Kelly.)

So then for an hour everyone continued on, teaching their children to say, "Thank you," and how to be Introduced, and how to Share, and then oh yes, you knew it, someone brought out the one month-old womb-damp baby that still had RIB marks on its HEAD and began bottle-feeding him.

I thought, "I could do tha  -- "

"DO NOT FEED THAT GIRL'S PONY!" I heard in my head and then I just decided to cry.

I went over to the baby, tears streaming out of my eyes, and told the father that it was his fault I was crying, his baby was tweaking my hormones. (Using a baby as a shield, that's what you call that.) Because I don't cry pretty. My nose gets red and the fatter I get, the more water weight I lose from my tear ducts. The father was gracious and assured me the baby was no fun, really.

"Oh," Gary said later, "Were you crying? I noticed your nose was red and your eyes were watering, but I didn't really know what was going on."

Fellow Traveler

Hoover identified five types of Communists.

1. The card-carrying Communist
2. The underground Communist
3. The Communist sympathizer
4. The fellow traveler, someone not a potential Communist but nevertheless who may hold views shared by Communists
5. The dupes

I have to say, were I a Communist, I would be a fellow traveler, because I like travel just that much.

It seems that travel makes your spouse more loyal. I read this interesting article regarding commitment. The part that struck me was that scientists "theorize that couples who explore new places and try new things will tap into feelings of self-expansion, lifting their level of commitment." I never feel closer to Gary than when we've mastered the public transit in a new town. I don't know how Gary feels, but for me it's better than sex, because there's no bladder infection.

I know I've felt that same commitment to people with whom I've cruised. I've become brand loyal to a number of bands just because they were on the BNL Ships & Dip cruise. I bought the Gaelic Storm without having heard the band or any song by the band because they were "on the cruise." I never heard a note from them on the cruise (other things to listen to), but I wanted to buy their CD and the Carbon Leaf CD. Because I slept with them on a boat.

Of course, my strongest loyalty is to those who have been to other planets. What will I do if someday a clinically depressed person runs for public office? And what if he's just a real ass, like Rand Paul? And would Rand been named Ayn if he was a girl? You know he would.

Pissy Pouty Pirate Post

Lunch talk turned today to the Pirates exhibit at the Science Center and what a co-worker thought of it.

He said, "I had to remind my nephew that: pirates? Not really good people."

But we love pirates, don't we? We love them because they are rule-breakers, rogues, they do what we wish we could.That's what I've always understood.

But lately, I've started to realize just how many people I know are rogues and rule-breakers.

A person who defiantly sneaks past security, because she's too important to be bothered with it.

An employee who parks in visitor's parking, because he's special.

Someone who doctors her son's report card to get the good student insurance discount, because she's never gotten a break.

It's not like I'm keeping a tally of who does wrong, it's more like I watch someone with a swagger, someone with a little confidence boost, someone with a spring in their step, I say, "So what's up?" and they always wind up telling me how they pulled one over on the Man. Because, as they say, "I am too good for this shit" or "They'll make an exception for me."

Because they are special. And I've been thinking, exactly what makes you special? Because you think you are? Like ... everyone? Everyone who says, "It's better to ask forgiveness than permission" and "Rules are made to be broken?"

One of the Numbered once said that I had "been a rule-follower" when she met me, but that I'd grown out of that. I don't think I have. At least, I hope any rules I break are out of laziness, cowardice, even stupidity, just as long as I'm not breaking rules out of arrogance.

Perhaps this is a fork in my personal path. Maybe if I make a different choice I'll be one of those housewives who take up shoplifting because they like the feeling of superiority it gives them. Or, maybe I'm just frustrated by the latest rule I have to follow: the one that says I must pass the Huge Financial Test of Futilitude for my job.

Wanton Bragging

My latest bonnet-bee is healthcare, and the arguments against which are essentially, "I got mine, I worked hard for mine, you shouldn't get yours for free." This would be like me saying, "I had to pay a 22% interest rate the first five years of my mortgage, then 13% the rest, now that my house is paid off you all shouldn't get these low interest rates." 

"I got mine, I worked hard for mine, you shouldn't get yours" makes no sense to me.

I say this because I'm going to write a post in which I sound like I really, really got mine, and I didn't even work hard for mine (well, I did work two jobs once), but I want you all to know I think you should get yours, you really should.

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

Since I have done nothing today but sleep and repeat, "I haven't broken my foot, I haven't broken my foot, I haven't broken my foot," I have nothing to say and am forced to confess to you my plans.

Plans for mid-May: go to Louisville for a BNL concert and stay at some unusual hotel called 21c. It seems to be half hotel / half contemporary art museum. And the ad for their bathroom made me want to go buy a Devo album.

Plans for early June: go to Tulsa for a BNL concert and stay at the historic Mayo hotel, where they will give us chocolate-covered strawberries and a suite if we pay them the going rate for a hotel in any other city.

Plans for the rest of the year:We've been debating where to go for our 25th anniversary. We've even considered some places BNL isn't playing. As Mom would say, "(!)."

Gary has decided it is our anniversary year, akin to the Birthday Month, and the dates are not relevant, so we can go anywhere, anytime this year, even overseas.

This is how the conversation has gone.

"Gary, it looks like the Greek economy is going in the toilet, maybe there'll be really good deals in Greece."
"Greece? You want to go to Greece? I would think you would have wanted to go someplace like Paris."
"Nah, I've never wanted to go to Paris."

(Days later)

"Gary, I've been thinking, I've been selfish, we should go somewhere you want to go. I was thinking Ireland."
"Why Ireland?"
"Well, because your family is Irish."
"My Dad's family is German. Should I want to go to Germany?" (pause) "Your family is French, isn't it?"

(Days later)

"Maybe it would be fun to go to Iceland."
"Or ... Paris!"

(Shield your eyes from the glare of the light bulb going off.)

So, it looks like the day of our anniversary we won't be having a party, or going out to dinner, but instead we might be staying inside and planning a trip to Paris. For sometime this year, or... Gary is voting for next year, because he's bought in to the Paris in Spring advertising. I vote for Paris in the summer, because I hear they are more understanding to tourists then. Actually, I vote for Paris in the next few weeks when I could get a $500 per person fare, because seriously, it's cheaper to go to Paris than Toronto? How does that work?

I'm not even really getting my hopes up, because it seems unreal.

Tattoos I Have Not Had

Let us say I had been getting tattoos since I was 15. I would not get these tattoos lightly. Each tattoo would be significant to my life. More than t-shirt or bumper-sticker significant.

Here are the tattoos I would have.

1. I would get a Maranatha tattoo at the age of 15.

"Maranatha" is an Aramaic term that means, "Come, Lord Jesus." At 15 I was fiercely praying for the return of Christ, since it would whisk me into the heavens away from high school and bullies and my brother and parents. Mine would be as big as the one above, because I was all about Jesus. It was a significant part of my life, and I could see if I were into tattoos that would be inked right across my collarbones.

2. Then, later in high school I would get a Literary Tattoo, somewhat like this one.

 

I would pick Sonnet 130, though. That's my favorite. In fact, that's still my favorite. Why? Because I haven't read a Shakespeare sonnet in 20 years. He hasn't written any new ones, and I read them all in college, and I picked my favorite.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare.

That, on my high school body, would have been ironic and self-deprecating. Not so much now. I haven't "tread on the ground" for about a decade. That tat would be on my back. The final couplet would have spread to twice the size of the top.

3. We can skip the boyfriend's names, because I don't think I made permanent plans with any boys. Gary loves to tell how I told the priest at our pre-Cana conferences I saw this marriage lasting five years.

4. I was quite devoted to my garden the first ten years in my house. My favorite flower was the wisteria that dangled over our porch. I'd have gotten a  wisteria tattoo to show my devotion to gardening.

 

The wisteria grew happily in our clay soil and soon swamped the front of our house. And then, it invaded our attic and grew just as lustily, albino, IN THE ATTIC. It's still up there, dead and disconnected from the roots. The roots which to this day try to reach the attic again, though I've poured stump killer on them every year.

I could not find a photo of a wisteria tattoo. Gary watches that L.A.Ink show, and we'd have to have had Kat von Dee (?) make a design for me. I think that one would have gone someplace whimsical, like on my midriff. So now, there would be little wisteria trails peeking out under my boobs.

5.  I did have a long history of throwing tea parties, and I have a tiny collection of teacups.

 

Of course, my teacup wouldn't have teabag or a blood splatter. This cup is on the back of someone's calf. Perhaps my other leg could have a teapot that would appear to pour when I flexed my calf.

My tea party days are dwindling - the big 25th anniversary event is morphing from a catered tea party event into a European vacation. Or as they say on South Park, 'screw you guys, I'm going to Europe.'

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I can think of a few other tattoos, too. I'm sure I'd have had a British flag from my Anglophile days, and something round circling my belly button. Oh! Intestines! Like a cut-out of intestines. And of course, a BNL tattoo, most probably the first few notes from "War on Drugs."  You know, stuff that wouldn't make me cringe later in life.

Of course, I could still get them removed. Look at this ad.

 

Seriously, let's say you never met me, you saw me naked (it could happen) 6 months after I'd had the tattoo removal above, are you saying you wouldn't look at my skin and say, "why is there a face on your belly?"

So, you want to commemorate what's important to you in life? Get a charm bracelet.

LobSlau '10: or, Death and the Unflinching Looking Upon It

LobSlau, my celebration of the friends who helped me with cake and wine through my Mom's hospice two epochs years ago was more subdued this year. This was because we had to fight the lobsters to death.

Stop reading this right now if you are a vegan or vegetarian. I mean it. Also, if you think lobsters are anything but over-sized insects, stop. Stop now.

 

A harsh fact: meat is dead when you eat it.  Friend 3 brought four filet mignon to augment the lobster and confessed the only difference was the steaks had been dead longer than the lobster. I am happiest when my food lives comfortably and dies swiftly. I thought the boiling alive technique was swift.

Let me tell you, I've been deluding myself thinking that dropping a lobster in boiling water and clapping a lid on it immediately is a clear-eyed brutally honest way to kill a lobster. (Click that link if you have no idea why I'm killing lobsters.) This year's first lobster was dropped in the boiling water. The lid was not at hand. Panic. I had to look at it with my clear eyes while the lobster bubbled away. I can't say I felt sympathy, but I felt that beheading it first would have been better.

As #3 was turning steaks on the grill, I remembered grilled lobster is a treat. That would mean I either would have grill the lobsters alive, or to kill the lobster by my own hand. At about that time Friend #2 was holding a lobster over the water, proclaiming, "May God have mercy on your soul," and it bucked at her and she screamed and dropped it in.

Friend 2  said her father made awesome grilled lobster and the lobster was killed and cut in half first.  I followed the directions in How To Cook Everything.

I was expecting: Position knife, crunch, dead lobster.

What happened: Position knife, crunch, lobster waves its arms, reposition knife, crunch crunch crunch, lobster continues to flail, crunch, lobster cut ENTIRELY in HALF! LOBSTER! KEEPS!! FLAILING! I looked for a pillow to put over the lobster's face.

Friend 2 (scientist's child), explained something about the neural network and how the lobster was truly dead, even though it was still moving. Plus, she said I was supposed to split it in half so I had one left side and one right side, not top and bottom. (Half the images on Google Search support her as did the image I had ignored in the cookbook.)

She fought a lobster to death next, and even found the brain etc. Her lobster halves also continued to wave their arms at her. In fact, Friend 3 reported all lobster halves continued to move while on the fire, snatching at the grill wires with their disembodied claws.

At one point Gary came in from walking the dog (as I said last year, he cannot be in the house when people arrive; I don't know why) and I cried, "Gary! Check this out!" I pierced the lobster's body both up and down, then left and right, on its 'crosshairs'' as recommended, and held the whole writhing lobster up in the air run through with the knife. He likes the self-described 'visceral' Spartacus, Blood and Sand; I thought he'd like that. But no. "I'm out of here!" He left immediately.

And finally, Friend 4, who brought vegetables to the table and kept all filet or lobster blood off her hands, who ran AWAY when I tried to show her how the little lobster pinchers at the ends of their legs will wrap around your finger like a baby's fist, sat right down and enjoyed the lobster and steak. I respect that point of view too.

NEXT YEAR: wrestling cows to the ground and carving out the filets personally. Or freezing chickens to death, but that sounds worse.

We  didn't have the Jesus prop this year, so I dug out the Dead Hand

 

(The Yellow Cookie was provided by Friend 4, so we'd be able to "eat something else with a face.")

 

Eddie Izzard and the Sin of Envy

Saturday night I braved the cold and went out to see Eddie Izzard at the Fox. (And by "the cold," I mean the Mini's thermometer read -2 degrees, and by "braved" I mean I'm actually noticing my MS is affected by extreme cold. With the heat, I have to be out in the heat for hours before I get stupid and clumsy. With the cold, I have to be out for ten minutes and I am wiped out for the rest of the day. Gary insists,  "Everyone gets tired when it's cold!" Really? Melded with the bed tired? I ignored the remark because he makes me dinner when I'm that fatigued.)

I went with Friend #1 and Tammi, she of the enviously great hair. We sat in the second-to-last row, and immediately began joking with the very back row. That's why I was tuned in to their frequency and heard one say to her friends "Blah mumble Barenaked Ladies - "

My torso whipped around. "Barenaked Ladies? WE ARE FRIENDS FOR LIFE. Talk to me!"

(Some bands just have friendly fans. Ask Friend #0.75 about Cowboy Mouth fans. They pet her and paw at her and protect her. I had to put my arm around her at once because I thought they were going to absorb her into their collective. MY Friend!)

So, of course talk turned to last year and Steven and the breakup and the Hookup and I said I was too envious of the twenty seven year old banging Steven Page to give an opinion. I've recently noticed that every time I feel like someone intruding in my business it's alway because they are jealous. Jealous of the rocks that I got. It's odd, I've never had anything people can envy before, I don't know how to really deal with it. I even found myself saying pointedly to my husband and friends, "Well, it's none of YOUR business," when I believe that everything is everyone's business. It's just envious people want you to know they would deal with your business so much better than you.

After Eddie makes you wait twenty minutes while you read his Twitter feed (Spunky sent a message that was displayed on the big screen), Eddie Izzard strides on stage like a hot runway model. He has a beard, so he wasn't in full transvestite gear, he just had on jeans and a tshirt and red silk lined glammy opera tails. He strides out, then bounces a bit, then he's good to go.

All very funny, even from the second to last row, and at one point he started in one the ten commandments and pointed out that "Thou shalt not covet they neighbors ass" (or wife, conveniently left out) just wasn't in the same league as the one before, "Thou shalt not kill." And I thought, no, if we didn't covet then people would feel free to talk about their business.

And of course I'm not talking about standard "Your hair looks great, I hate you" or the "You're seeing Eddie Izzard?  I am SO ENVIOUS!" (Big Dot. 1/9/10) It's the combo of envy and judgement that gets me.

I know, I know, Tiger Woods. I think I'm all judgement there, no envy.