Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Gary Curses

Today, Gary slipped and described someone as an "asshole" in front of his parents. He slipped, but recovered so quickly it was one word: "assholesorry."

He is 58, so he was not grounded.

(He might claim to have Tourette's, so Tourette's Gary can join Migraine Man and Seizure Gary in his stable of neurological superheroes.)

When Gary slipped, I noticed no gasping or tutting from his Mom. She has reproved him before for saying "Jeez," since it is taking the first syllable of the Lord's Name in Vain.

We debated why "Jeez" provoked a lecture but "asshole" passes.

I argued, "You didn't say 'God's asshole.' Plus, it's an actual body part."

Gary said, "Asshole ... so it's like twat! That makes sense."

 

UPDATE: BALLS! Two Hints That You Have Gone Over The Top In Planning Your Vacation

See ABKCO Music v. Harrisongs Music regarding subconscious plagarism / cryptoamnesia. Dave from Blogography is right, he posted this before. I plead my extreme youth. I'm only 49. Here is his superior post.

Please note viscount was not on his list, however.

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Graphic User Interface Hint  1:

This is the first dropdown you encounter:

  

Graphic User Interface Hint 2:

You don't know what this icon means.

That icon, ladies and gentlemen,  inidcates that a selected cruise provides Gentleman Hosts, or "dance partners or dinner companions for single female guests. These interesting, amiable and distinguished men will often participate in other shipboard activities as well as escort shore excursions."

 Where else can a viscountess get amiable booty? Where, I ask.

I Feel Good

Right this second, I feel really good. Let's analyze why.

The AC is blowing directly on me. Recently I've noticed I can tolerate the bitter cold just fine. I don't turn away from the ac, ever. Gary tries to freeze me out and I say, bring it, boy, make those nips fall off, it can't get too cold.

I just went shopping on-line for shoes. I'm going to purge the bad shoes and bring in some good shoes. Let me count ... oh. Uh-oh. Seven pairs of shoes? Well, some are Shoes of the Dead at deep deep discounts. Some ... being one ... checking the accounts ... well, that puts a dent into next week's paycheck. Don't care. Still feel good. Well, a little less good. I suppose then it isn't mania (you know you thought it).

But! My jeans and pants have been getting longer. Somehow eschewing caffeine has trimmed my thighs. My belly is still huge, but it's the only thing that doesn't fit well into my sparkly wedding ensemble.

And! I'm having a 3.5 day weekend because I took off early today. Next week at work will be short, and the week after that (because of the wedding).

 Now! This is interesting: the air conditioning just shut off and my mood is a little deflated.

Of course, I might be happy because Gary is snoring away in the bedroom. He had a short day too, and chose to come home. He would usually take advantage of the uninterrupted work time, and I would usually interpret that as a personal insult. So it makes sense I'd be flattered he came home.

You know, after all this analysis, I know what it is. It's the cold air. I feel like I'm a cold air connoisseur. Peculiar. However, nice to know I can just buy a can of compressed air and zap myself if I need a lift.

Murrrrderrr

This morning, where the sidewalk and the driveway meet ...

I saw this.

It's a dead vole. I'm being respectful of your feelings, especially you cube dwellers having lunch at your desks before tying in to work. You don't want to start your day with a rigor-mortized yellow-fanged blind vole next to a puddle of its own blood, festival of color and detail though it might be. (Click it. You know you want to. CLICK IT!)

The thing I found fascinating was the crime scene. First I noticed a blood stain, then stain by stain I saw a blood splattered trail leading to the body.

This program contains graphic violence so tiny it doesn't count.

There was a slight flesh wound on the cement side of the vole (yeah, I carefully kicked it over - sorry, "her" over).

Gary guessed it immediately. "She was a victim of a 9mm Luger bullet, wasn't she!" Well, more likely a cat got bored and "played" it to death in the middle of the driveway.

I have a little fondness for this vole, though. Look at the drama! All that emotion with no eyes!

Vacation, Got to Get Away.

This past weekend, I said the word "vacation" to Gary and his back went out within the hour.

Yesterday, I asked where he wanted to go on vacation, and he said, "Here?"

Rewind to a month ago, when he said, "If we ever go to Hawaii again, I want to stay on Kauai. It's the Forest Island."

No, it's the Garden Island, because it rains all the time. I did a little research. Rainy and overcast? No strength-sapping sun? I love it. Gary would love it too, since the migraine last year left him with photophobia. (In fact, the flash of the bird camera just got him full-face and it's left him nauseated and fatigued, poor guy.)

I went in for some heavy research and found a flight/car/hotel half price if we stay off-season (when it's probably less sunny). I could afford it. I can also afford it because no one will construct a heated driveway, so I have those savings to spare. (Seriously, cement construction companies say things like "I don't do that any more, it's too expensive." or "I don't have the equipment," or "No one gets those anymore." Turning down work. Proof the economy is improving. My brief career as a robber baron, over.)

Gary sensed I was looking forward to a trip and came back to say, "Don't get too excited about vacation, you never know what my job will be like -"

"Stop it."

"You know, there aren't any bears or alligators in Hawaii." He abruptly left the room.

So, Alaska? I thought back to the inside passage, where one can view moose and bears on the shore or go back inside to the air conditioning and gourmet food. Gary countered with the La Brea tar pits and Yosemite. I parried, "Galapogos? African Safari!" You would have thought I'd said "Thailand? Sex Clubs?" Evidently, among former biology majors, touristing at those shrines is like money-changing in the temple.

 Norway's Aurora season is over. What sounds good? Nature, mammals, overcast ... go!

Cottonwood

I work by a stand of cottonwood trees. I know this only because some days my visibility is limited by all this fluff flying at my car.

I assume that's the stuff. I never see it on the ground, only in the air. It links up like dust bunnies.

(Everybody sing, to the tune of Ghost Riders, "Dust Bunnies in the skkyyyy..." )

Never on the ground, and never in a tree. Evidently cottonwoods are a form of poplar, and I've seen poplars, but I have never seen a tree with fluff on it. I'm not looking for a giant spent dandelion, either. I'd take a tree with just a few fluffpods.

Three years ago I was struck by the cottonwood storms by my new job, now I find they've followed me home. This weekend there was an fluffy F1 tornado in my yard.

Perhaps what's happening is that the fluff never degrades, it just goes up to the stratosphere and floats down again every spring.

I just did a little research so I know what to look for. Has anyone ever seen this on a tree?

That looks pretty fake to me.

The Power of Denial

Honestly, I opened the warming drawer and thought, what's that bready stuff all over everything?

And lo, the days pass, and there was cheese

It looks like cheese and smells like cheese. I don't know how it tastes. Might have to feed it to Mac and see if he lives.

Or might have to make an omelet for Gary.

Call of Nature

The Little Insect Squirrels are growing on me now that I can see them up close on the bird camera. They are so tiny and move so fast when you see them across the yard, it's disgusting, but when you see them up close and watch them play and talk to each other, it's cute.

Look at this little baby.

Look at his widdie biddie cwosed eyes. So sweeet.

Look at this tiny baby on video.

And watch this video of a dad and a baby squirrel. Make sure the audio is turned up because they talk to each other.

And look at this photo of Mama - oh God!

Oh God no! What have they done to her? I can't show this photo, it's not safe for work or home. After I saw it I rolled my chair into the corner and sat there for a while.

But if you want to see, you can click here.

So, now I'm back to hating squirrels. I recommend two more because they make the babies look stupid: one gets stuck and one can't handle the feeder. 

All fifty are at the Flickr account.

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?

Putting the Urban in Suburban

Something shiny caught my eye as I trudged up the driveway this afternoon.

Shiny Object! Brass and Shiny Object. I picked it up. Oh! Shiny Brass Shell Casing.

Now, I've found shell casings before, because this is America, and there are deer. But this wasn't like those. This was button-sized.

I turned it over and read the marking: G.F.I. 9mm Luger. I immediately suspected Nazis, but it turns out the Luger is a modern Wal-Mart handgun. A handgun, not a killin-varmints gun, but a killin-peoples-and-small-varmints gun.

So I poked around the internet a bit, and investigated shell casings, and I found a number of instances in which dogs had sniffed out shell casings that were then used as evidence in murder cases. No one in my neighborhood has been murdered as far as I know, but if they are rotting right now I would feel bad to frustrate the police dogs. ("Sniff sniff! It was right here on the driveway! I've lost the scent! Damnit to hell!")

So I called the police - not 911 but the nearest station.

"Hi. This by no means an emergency, but I found a shell casing outside my house."

"Can you describe it?"

"It's a 9mm G.F.I. Luger -"

"What is your name?"

So! I felt vindicated. I told him my name and said, "I'm surprised, I really thought you'd laugh this off."

He answered with a stony, "I wouldn't do that."

Then we went through "What is your address," "When did you find it?" and the one I was dreading, "Did you touch it?"

"Well, yes I did. I didn't even think about fingerprints."

Then, "[unintelligible] an officer will come out."

I thought he said, "If you need one, an officer will come out,"so I replied, "Oh, no, I don't need that, I was just worried your dogs would be sniffing for it and not find it."

I WAS JUST WORRIED YOUR DOGS WOULD BE SNIFFING FOR IT AND NOT FIND IT.

Then a long pause, and then he said, "So are you saying you do not want to talk to an officer.?"

"Well, I don't need to talk to anyone, it's not like I'm concerned."

"So you are refusing to see the officer?"

What? What had he said? "No! No, I'm not refusing at all!" And THEN I shut up.

So, then I had to get dressed for the officer that would be visiting soon, and tidy up the house, and call Gary to tell him to remain calm when he arrived home to find a police car. (I told him the story. "You didn't touch it, did you?" he immediately asked. Gary's been in police crossfire. I should probably tell you that story. Another day.)

The officer showed up, all starched and khaki and twenty. He turned the shell casing all about and said, "Oh, it's spent." He sounded a little disappointed.

I thought that was odd. If it wasn't a spent shell casing, wouldn't I remark there was a bullet on my driveway?

At any rate he asked if I'd heard gunshots (No). He surmised someone had picked them up (after target practice, I suppose) and just dropped one.

When he left, he went to his car which was parked across the street at the neighbor's, since the neighbor's daughter was parked in front of my house.

I noticed they were out in the front gardening. I hope they weren't there when the police showed up. That would be alarming, to look up from gardening and find a police officer. What must they think! Hah! I was going to go over and explain everything, but now I think I'll let it lie.

Patient, Heal Thyself

Last Friday, when I drank a cup of coffee and coughed it up a few hours later, I thought I should call my doctor and make an appointment so I could get some of this Prilosec stuff -  the Industrial strength version, not the OTC version.

I checked in on his blog first, in much the same way I can see my friends cramming through my blog before we have a GNO scheduled. I read his suggestions on how patients should probably try Plan A: Eating Right, before jumping right to Plan B: Handy Dandy Drugs. (I'm paraphrasing.)

So, instead of making an appointment I went grocery shopping. No fatty foods, coffee, alcohol, or (as it turns out) sugar. Friend #2 told me about sugar setting off reflux. My response was, "OH come ON." Seriously, what is left? Fruit. Vegetables. Tuna. Chicken. Bread, though, there is that. Pretzels. That's what I bought.

My healthy diet lasted one entire day, then the next day I began adding in sugar. Apple Jacks? No problem. Pot roast? Pot roast went down and stayed down. Milk and cream cheese! Decaf cafe lattte!

No coughing all weekend! But then  ....

Six hours ago I ate a chocolate cupcake. That cupcake has been lodged in my chest so firmly it makes my ears itch. Itchy ears, headache and nausea all evening.

Maybe there's some type of decaf chocolate cupcake? Maybe I could eat half a cupcake with no ill effects. How can I split this hair?

Respect Mah Food AuthoriTAY!

I don't understand a thing about Technorati.com. I don't know who makes the rankings. I don't know who looks at the rankings. I suspect it's like some early version of Klout which looks at the words you use and extrapolates from there. Here's my blog ranking:

Technorati Authority: 118  Rank 20802 

Living Authority: 134  Rank: 4618

Health Authority: 95  Rank: 3387

Food Authority: 133  Rank 2001

Perhaps with all the numbers above I will soon be a Math Authority. I see no Health subcategory for Labial Disorders.

What amused me most was "Food Authority": It particularly amused me tonight as I scraped raw bread dough off the underside of my oven. Not the bottom of my oven. Under my oven.

The oven has a cunning "Proof Bread" feature. You take all the baking sheets and muffin tins out of the oven's warming drawer, because that's where they are stored, and you put your dough in a small wide bowl and let it rise.

And you think, because you are evidently a Food Authority, what if this bread rises really high? And then you say, oh, it can't rise that high, what would be the use of putting the Bread Proofer in the warming tray if it rises too high. People would make that mistake all the time.

And then 45 minutes later you have difficulty opening the Bread Proofing  / Warming / Storage Drawer because it is filled with smooth elastic bread dough. The dough rose up and melded with the bottom of the oven, then when I pulled the drawer out it  gummed up everything down there. I had to open the drawer halfway and reach up and peel dough off the oven undersides.

I have decided on two strategies for the remaining dough that is still there. (And yes it is still there - I could not see what I was doing and I was in an awkward posture.) Plan A: it is eaten by mice and bugs. Plan B: The next time I use the self-cleaning oven it ignites and drops blazing clots of bread into the Storage Drawer.

Interesting that I also have Technorati Health Authority, as my oven has an invasive yeast infection.