Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Deluge

I noticed today as I drove home that the sky became just ... wrong ... over the river. If I had painted that sky, I would have corrected it. There were white glossy patches on top of back-lit dark blotches.

"Creepy" I thought. "Maybe I can get home before it rains." And, typical of me, "I can get in and out of the store before it starts, I don't need an umbrella."

And I could have done it, too. As I raced through the cereal aisle a mom had to warn her child to get out of my way. The little girl did, and I slowed down to say "Thank you" to her. The mom said "Good Manners" in a very approving way. Of course, I assumed she was directing that at me. I suppose she could have been approving the way her child politely got out of my way.

And that, really, is irrelevant, because I had noticed a child and connected on a small degree. Yay, me. When I was almost out the door I recognized the same little girl at the service desk ahead repeating, "Ter-matoes. There will be ter-matoes."

I thought she meant tomatoes and she was Teeny Tiny Cassandra warning them about salmonella. Then I realized she was warning them about Tornadoes. I stopped next to her.

"I believe you," I said. "It looks really bad outside."

"No," she replied intently. "It will just rain, that's all."

Crack. And the downpour started.

I was drenched through to my granny panties by the time I got to my car.  And as I waded through the gulleywasher, I wondered, when did moms stop teaching their children to avoid strangers?

Space News

My brother David called Sunday night to say "Alert! TiVo Alert! Space Week! Science Channel!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said. "How We Left Earth. Saw it." Saw it; TiVoed it; blogged it.

"NO! Moon Missions! New!"

And I'll be darned, it is new. It's a new slant on the Apollo missions. First of all, they tell the story from the engineer's point of view. Last night was about the Saturn V rocket, and they talked to every engineer BUT the engineer who painted USA on the side. (And, of course I realize now they didn't use fossil fuel in the Saturn V, or even rocket fuel, but hydrogen fuel cells. The hydrogen fuel cells that Pres. B. has been promising in every State of The Union for his tenure of eighty million years.) 

Tonight's episode was on engineering the command module and I swear to you, I saw new footage I had never seen before. They showed the "drop tests." Hysterical footage of the command module slamming into the ground before they decided on water landings.

The most touching part of tonight's episode was when the engineers described the Apollo 1 deaths from their point of view. And I never realized it before, but Gus Grissom was in the Mercury capsule that trapped him after splashdown with its outward-opening door, then the resultant inward-opening door trapped him in the Apollo 1 fire.  (You just want to go back in time and say, "Hey, look at this show Star Trek. No hinges on any of the doors. They just slide.")

So, as I say, the moon program continues to draw me in. However, Gary has had it with MoonTV. Gary was going into the bathroom when tonight's episode began. It started with John F. Kennedy saying, for the fifteenth time this week, "I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon..."

"Kennedy!" Gary screamed from the hall, "That's Kennedy! Am I right? Am I right?"

On the Epidemic of Heart Attacks in the Rabbit Population

We celebrated the fourth on the fifth at the in-laws, as it always is.

I was outside watching Tinkerbell do her tiny doggie business on the back lawn, and Wilma said, "Oh, good, that's her regular spot. Yesterday, I was on the phone and she was hunched over funny and I started screaming."

Wilma will do that, jump directly to the end of a story. Here's the whole story, as told later by Wilma:

"I was on the phone with my brother, Rick."

Gary interrupted, "You mean Uncle Dick?" Uncle Dick decreed ten years ago that he was now to be called Rick. Wilma is the only one who has complied.

'Well yes." (I am skipping the part in which Wilma discusses the Dick-to-Rick transition.) "Then when I was on the phone, with Rick, I saw Tinkerbell go over to that end of the yard, then when I looked again she was hunched over funny, looking at the ground. So I sent Ken out to see what she was looking at. He said it was a dead bunny rabbit. So I screamed -- And you know that rabbit died from a heart attack because those kids in that yard were firing off firecrackers."

"Excuse me," I said. "Really?"

"Oh yes. It was an old rabbit."

I covered my smile. "You don't think the dog may have - "

"No! Rabbits die from heart attacks all the time." She turned to Gary. "Remember when you kids had that bunny, the one that kept biting you? Ken took it to the vet and as soon as they put it on the exam table it had a heart attack and died."

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

I felt a little bad for laughing at Wilma, so I did some investigation on Google. I've found two bits of information:

One: Rabbits really can die of fright.

Two, and I find this the essential bit of information: Miniature dachshunds like Tinkerbell were bred to kill bunnies.

An Excerpt from the Yiddish Policeman's Union

I think all they would have to do is put this excerpt on the back cover, and they would just hand Michael Chabon the Pulitzer for fiction. Again.

A man (Hertz) and his son (John Bear Berko) are talking after a long estrangement.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

'"Don't take that tone with me, John Bear," the old man snaps. "I don't care for it."

"Tone?" Berko says, his voiced stacked like a measure of musical score with a half-dozen musical tones, a chamber ensemble of insolence, resentment, sarcasm, provocation, innocence, and surprise. "Tone?"

- Michael Chabon

Old Posts: Where Are They Now Edition

Given what I did on July Fourth (stayed in the house, saw no fireworks, learned a schtckle of Yiddish), and given what my summer plans are (concert next week, then a great expanse of nothing), I am reduced to updating old reports.

Rock Band- I was momentarily interested in getting Rock Band, or at least Guitar Hero, then I realized that I already play a similar game called Guitar Pro. Have you heard of it? You sit on the side of the bed with your guitar, and rock song tabs scroll past you on the screen like the bouncing ball, and you try to keep up. I suck at it. I honestly contented myself yesterday by playing only the notes on the low E with my acoustic.

Metal Dog- Mac continues to seek and destroy all our zipper pulls. We are going to rent him out to the TSA so he can search out box cutters and knives.

Moneymoneymoney, Money- It's easy to want stuff when you can't afford it. Let's say you want a huge flat screen TV. The thought process is: "Want! Can't afford." and it ends there. I have found that when you can afford it, the process is: "Want! Won't fit in entertainment center. Still want! Buy new furniture! What to do with old furniture? Move old furniture! Will expose dog pee stains on hardwood floor! Refinish floor! Move all existing furniture! Pain in the ass! Don't want big screen tv!" I've talked myself out of everything I want.

Butterflies - You raise monarch butterflies on milkweed plants. This monarch company makes you grow a milkweed plant first. I can't. I am going to have to buy a milkweed plant. I CAN'T GROW A WEED.

July Fourth

Two Things I Love About My Country

The Constitution. 

I love the constitution like Barbara Jordan does, and if anyone hasn't heard how much she loves the Constitution, go here and listen up. 

I love it even with its flaws. I love the ACLU. I love the Nazis hiking through Skokie. Oh, I even love the Second Amendment, just on principle. I love the terrorists getting out of Guantanamo and walking about free because if I recall from Social Studies, due process and habeas corpus were good things. Things we had that Mexico didn't have, much to our seventh-grade horror. "What do you mean they can just put you in jail for no reason? Why would anyone ever go to Mexico then?"

I love the fact that the Bill of Rights goes so completely against common sense sometimes, but the Supreme Court is there to go against human nature and hold the line for the law. If it were a man it would be Victor Lazlo in Casablanca. Perfect and impossible, when you really want to wallow in base pleasures with Rick, like a hot evening of torturing war criminals.

Saturn V Liftoffs.

Yes, it's a big phallic symbol and a waste of fossil fuel. However, while I'm immune to the charms of the flag, and military bands don't give me any chills, I will watch any Saturn V liftoff replay just for the moment the high-definition camera in the tower shows the slow crawl of the giant U, followed by the giant S, followed then by the A.

"U- S-A!" I say as it goes past, then I clap a little. And then I hug in my heart whatever marketing person put that camera there and turned the rocket so you could see the big USA climbing past.

Oh, and even better? Other countries might have Constitutions, but they don't have Saturn V rockets with their country's initials painted on them.

Sleepshopping

I've been reading my copy of The Yiddish Policeman's Union. I've turned down the corners of pages that contain words I don't know. Words I don't know, you shkotzes you. And I apologize if "shkotz" means something bad, but I'm leaving all the Yiddish words until I get to a good stopping point. It's all Yiddish and words like "ratiocination." Hands up if you know that word. At any rate, I've been turning down corners. The book is starting to look like my Mom's copy of Candy Kane after I discovered the WWII book was made of some very tasty pulp, and you could turn down the corners and they became little bite-sized book hors d'oeuvres.

I've been making such progress that I started to think what my next book will be, and it struck me I had ordered a book off a blog link. Problem was, all I could remember about the book was that it had stripes. I remembered waking up in the middle of the night, coming to the computer, reading blogs, clicking a link, thinking "THAT book sounds really good" about the Stripe Book, and then going back to bed.

"Oh," I thought, "I bet it was a dream." Then it occured to me that I have mobile dreams sometimes, and I might have bought anything on the Internet, and I should be thankful it was a dream.

But, last night the Stripe Book arrived on my porch! It's Stuff White People Like. Strangely, I thought it was a more significant book. Well, and I thought it had three stripes. So there's a chance another book might show up.

And maybe a pony.

In the nude, all that is not beautiful is obscene*

* Robert Bresson, French film director.

Long ago I was a pretty good artist. I can't sculpt, I have no eye for color, but I draw a good nude. My favorite class was Figure Drawing, where my specialty was delicate line drawings of nude women.

Of course, I was far more comfortable with the female form. I had almost no experience with the male nude form. I blame myself, of course, and Michelangelo. All through high school I peered closely at many of Michelangelo's works to see what a penis might look like and was presented with bullshit like this.

"Scribble Penis" by the Artist Michelangelo

and

"Stylized Penis" by the Artist Michelangelo

(Really, what does that tell me? It's a potato growing out of a cauliflower cloud.)

At any rate, for the first three weeks of Figure Drawing we waited out the pervs who signed up for class just to drop it after they saw their nudes. Then, one day I was running late and thought, "Rats," (truly) "It's the first day with a nude and now I'm going to be late."

Well, I was late, and worse yet, all of the drawing horses (sit-down easels) were taken. The horses were circled around the male nude's table. The table he sprawled on. Sprawled on his back. Sprawled on his back with his legs bent at the knee dangling off the table. Like this guy.

 

Only naked. And young. And guess where the only available drawing horse was? Yes. Right between his knees. Scrotum Central.

I looked two or three times for another easel, then I said, "Oh, it's just a body part." Then I sat down, propped up my pad and drew a GREAT BIG CIRCLE because BALLS, meet Ellen. Ellen, may I introduce you to Balls?

I never got past the big circle because the instructor saw my focal point (balls), snorted, and said "Time for a new position."

This is the same instructor who, later that semester, wanted us to exercise our powers of observation, so he moved the naked nude male model into the storage closet. Then we had to individually go into the closet, study the model for up to a minute, then go back and draw him from memory. People were drawing individual arm hairs to avoid peering at the private parts of the man you were trapped with in a storage closet.

I should start drawing again. I don't suppose there are figure drawing classes at the Y.

Update Du Dog and Other Household Pets

Gary's has been feeding the dog nothing but a few scraps of Mighty Dog with an avalanche of this on top:

Mac the dog gets a lunch-plate full of this twice a day. 

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

The other day I was running the Roomba in the kitchen and dining area. I was sitting on the other side of the house when I heard the Roomba getting stuck on the stair trim. (There's some trim on the floor by the basement stairs and the Roomba dry humps it for at least three minutes before it makes its sad "I'm Stuck" sound.)

Then Mac began barking madly from the kitchen. I went in to find the Roomba, not stuck on the stair trim, but gnawing on Mac's completely full food dish. "NOM NOM NOM!" Roomba said, pushing the plate across the floor. Mac bounced behind it, barking, gobbling up the trail of food Roomba Monster left behind.

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

The next day, Mac turned his appetite elsewhere in a huff. "If you are going to feed Beef Tips to the Roomba, then screw you! I'll eat what I want!"

The one thing we have discouraged the Pica Puppy from eating is metal. Mac the Dog loves metal. He will slobber for an hour trying to eat a paperclip. If you have a tea party, he will try to eat the guest's jewelry.

Well, I looked around the day after the Roomba misunderstanding and he has eaten all the zipper pulls off all the pillows. He had to burrow into the pillowcases to hunt out the zipper pulls. Gary should just sprinkle zipper pulls on top of Mac's Mighty Dog.

GNO Report From, Yes, Almost 48 Hours Ago

GNO was Friday, and sometime Saturday morning I threw my neck out so that I couldn't do much of anything but lie around and drink Riverboat Red wine. (Review here! If I like it, how could it have won awards?)

I was drinking Saturday at 10 am to reward myself for being a good designated driver. I had a wonderful time at GNO. It appears I can suppress my inhibitions sufficiently all by myself. Well, almost - when Marcia kissed me I blurted "No!" and clamped my lips shut.

Everyone was there - all the old Elliot gang and the new TeddyJ crowd who work with The Even -Numbered Friends. At one point someone told the new women that I had been naked on a cruise with BNL. I was expecting "Naked!", but instead...

New TeddyJ person 1 swooned, "Barenaked Ladies? I love them!"

"Oh, I love them too," said new TeddyJ person 2, "I've seen them in concert. There were great!"

"OLD FRIENDS" I announced to the assemblage, and everyone quieted, "I HAVE NEW FRIENDS NOW. I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO DO WITH YOU. MY NEW FRIENDS LIKE BARENAKED LADIES."

"Oh, we suck," all my old friends agreed.

"Who is the one with the glasses?" New Friend 1 asked.

"Steeeeeeeeveeeen" I sighed.

"He is sooooo beautiful. He has such a sweet face. And he sings - "  

"- Like an annnnngel." I finished.  Then we made out. (No.) Then my right hand throttled her in a fit of jealousy. (No.) Then we discussed New Friend 2's favorite song, "Tonight Is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel," and new Friend 1's favorite "In The Car," and the cruise. 

The rest of the night was fun but in contrast uneventful. The most exciting part was the big group scream of excitement while we were playing Rock Band. "EEEAAAAAAAY! YEAH! FUCK YEah! We ROCK!" Goats were Thrown. Fives were Highed.

We had just gotten it to work.

There was more screaming later when we completed out first song, but not as wildly heartfelt.

In Which We Warsh

(That's not a typo - it is how Gary pronounces "wash.")

I really try to avoid Morning Gary, because I hate him so. Imagine Sickly Gary, but well-rested and feisty. Sometimes, though, I can't avoid him, and I have to talk to Gary before he leaves for work.

The other day we had this exchange:

"Gary ... where are you?"

"In the shower."

"Well, I have a meeting in forty-five minutes, so I've got to take over the shower."

"No!" (Morning Gary. He's such a bastard sometimes.)

"Well, hurry up then."

(Fifteen minutes later)

"GARY! Get out of the shower! Get out or I'm coming in there with you."

(While this might sound inviting to some men, Morning Gary is, I reiterate, a bastard.)

"No!"

"You have been in there half an hour. What are you doing?"

(Don't think that. Morning Gary is equally a bastard to himself. He was not scrubbing anything hard in the shower.)

"Well at least I clean myself off in the shower. You just wipe the soap on your armpits and you're done."

Now, this is an outrageous lie from the Mouth of Morning Gary.  There was a scene in the Clifton Webb / Myrna Loy version of Cheaper By the Dozen, in which the father, an efficiency expert, shows his theory of "motion efficiency" and how it can be implemented in the shower. His kids could wash their whole bodies in one fluid motion in about a minute. I take about three minutes, since I weigh approximately three children.

I go: pits, shoulders, underboobs, belly, crotch, thighs. My calves don't sweat; I'm not washing them. My feet are swishing in soapy water for three minutes, then I put them on a towel. Everything rinses because I'm under running water. Well, except for the underboobs, they've been a challenge to rinse lately. They require one hand to lift and an extra upward hand splash.

Whereas Gary takes half an hour in the shower, because he doesn't believe in the motion efficiency theory, but the theory that you can kill bacteria with friction. Friction and hot water, and sometimes there isn't enough hot water. One thing Gary did teach me was the American Spread Bidet posture, so I wash there too.

I am reminded of the story told about William Blake, the Artist / Poet and his wife (let's call her Cathy). A visitor noticed they didn't seem to have any soap for washing up before dinner, and Cathy drew herself up and snapped haughtily, "Mr. Blake's skin don't dirt."

So I ask you, how much redundancy is there in your shower? Do you scrub at your calves? Why? Do your calves dirt? Really? My calves don't dirt.

My underboobs dirt, somehow. I don't know why.

First Lines of Posts I Later Decided to Abandon: Part 1

As I felt the emulsification of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, pretzels dipped in cream cheese, Ben and Jerry's, stomach acid, and bile creep out of my colon at work today, I wondered if perhaps I should re-consider my eating habits.

What Is It About Minature Food?

God, I love tiny food almost as much as I love food disguised as other food.

Look at the eensy Ben and Jerry's! I added the spoon for scale.

Ironically, just last year I developed the ability to eat just the one half-cup serving out of the pint container. I don't know, maybe it's a gift you get when you reach a certain weight.

Mr. S________ Presents

What with the S______ Estate settled, Gary has suddenly become more liquid.  Liquid like a waterbed, baby. For example, check out the sidebar where we have the house countdown. Yeah, he did that behind my back. Takes all the fun out of it.

I, on the other hand, can not make any purchase without reaching beyond the grave to see what Mom thinks. Mom, I asked, would it be insane to fly up to Toronto to see Steven Page sing Leonard Cohen songs? The Mom that lives in my head frowned and reminded me that was the day the in-laws were celebrating Father's Day, so I couldn't really consider it. (Oh, and this didn't make that any easier, thank you very much.)

On the other hand, Gary is ignoring any late Mormon/Mason relative who may be tracking Gary's debit card. Gary can spend money easily, especially if it's for a gift. My birthday's coming up this summer. I thought, hmm, I can ride this gravy train. I asked, "Hey, Gary, you know how you kept threatening to get me an iPhone when they first came out? They're putting out a cheaper iPhone and I think it would make a good birthday gift."

Mom-in-My-Head interrupted with, "Are you intent on just pissing his money away? An iPhone? I-Bonds! That's what you need."

Gary hedged a little at first, but when he heard people might be standing in line, he will be pissing some money away on a birthday present for me.

Well, Father's Day (observed) at the S_________'s. was the ideal opportunity for Gary to give some excellent gifts. When Gary feels that a gift is particularly excellent, he doesn't just give the gift, he presents it, in that he makes a presentation.

Say you are getting a primo gift from Gary. While you are unwrapping it, you will notice Gary rising out of his chair, ready to lift it out of your hands immediately. He will wait just until you look at the box and say, "Oh - its a battery-operated hedge clipper / golf chair / iPod."

Gary will grab the box and read it aloud. "Now look, see, it does x and x and has an attachable x." Then HE will open YOUR box for you and, in front of you, assemble the present, detailing all of the features like he's on the Home Shopping Network. And YOU have to admire every bit of plastic or Styrofoam peanut. (Yes. He will point out how well it is packed.)

This. Takes. Hours. Gary's sister Karen finally started unwrapping Ken's other Father's Day gifts and waving them at her father from across the room. 

So when I get my iPhone (maybe) I will not be allowed to touch it until I have listened to Gary read the entire manual to me. It really is maddening. Really. Yeah, I'm complaining about my husband buying me an iPhone. It's not like I can enjoy it; Mom says he should be buying me I-Bonds instead.

The Troubles: Part Two, The Troubles End (still essentially a humor-free post)

Previously seen on The Troubles, Gary works too much and I bitch too much and eventually we hate each other. Gary uses the D word.

After much crying, I got up the next morning and looked up "Lawyers, Divorce" in the Yellow Pages. Then it struck me that I was skipping a step: that marriage counseling step.

First I tried the parish priest, even though we had never set foot in the church. It was useless. (Gary claims he was there. I just quizzed Gary about what he remembers. Nothing.)

Then, I realized that whore McDonnell-Douglas Aeronautics, who had seduced my husband away from me with her cool technical projects, could pay for the counseling with her Employee Assistance Program. The EAP sent us to some ex-priest. We drove separately, I was late, Gary was there, I walked in, and the counselor pointed his finger at me and demanded "HOW OLD WERE YOU WHEN YOUR FATHER ABANDONED THE FAMILY?"

That bastard Gary's been talking about me, I thought, but come to find out this man held fast to the Inner Child school of therapy. He informed us that the reason we were having difficulty was because "Little Ellen" and "Little Gary" had been hurt as children and were acting out. "Little Ellen" must have Daddy issues because her husband was eight years older. I don't deny the truth of this, just the parlor-game way he introduced it. This visit did result in a nice moment on the parking lot while we made fun of the therapist. It would seem "Little Gary" struck my Gary as a euphemism for his penis.

The next place I tried was chosen because it was close to my work. I went alone. The therapist had on a vest and asked if I'd like a hug the minute I walked in for my first visit.

"No!" I recoiled in horror.

"Not a hugger? That's okay. What brings you here?"

So I bitched about the situation for an hour. She interrupted me once to ask if I'd considered having an affair.

"How would that help anything?" I was astonished. I could not have had an affair, men were treating me like a leper. A leper with Herpes. Herpes and Aids. I had been flirting with men at work, and I'd been out dancing with my friends, but the one time a man asked to buy me a drink I had placed my wedding-ring hand prominently on top of my purse after I said no. And, frankly, I'm a little pissed only one man asked, the Heartbreak Diet had me down to 120 pounds. And I wore lingerie to work every day, just so I could feel it and think what an idiot my husband was for not having sex with me for the last four months.

After our hour was up, she insisted that Gary come the next time. She moved in for a hug but caught herself in time.

The next appointment wasn't for two weeks. I moved back to Mom's house. At the time, Mom and Dad were on vacation, so Gary assumed I was watching their cat. Cat-sitting. That I had moved in for some intensive cat-monitoring. The cat would at least be there when I came home from work.

After two weeks Mom came home and said, you can stay one more week, after that, get an apartment or move back with Gary. (Mom, when I reminded her of this a few years ago, was horrified by her coldness.)

I moved back with Gary for one reason: The First Annual Tea Party was coming up in about a month. I wasn't nice to him, I can tell you that.

I have no idea why he said he'd come to my new huggy counselor with me. He sat there scowling with his arms crossed (in fact, the only thing Gary recalls is that he was unable to uncross his arms), while the counselor asked us to recap our grievances.

Me: He never comes home.
Him: Why would I? She just yells at me when I'm there.
Me: I wouldn't yell if you came home more.
Him: I've said I'm going to come home more now.
Me: I don't believe you. You've said that before.

"Okay," said the counselor as she hopped out of her chair. "Separate rooms."

And she went in a separate room with Gary, alone. I sat there and wondered if she was suggesting he have an affair. After twenty minutes she came back in to my room.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He says he changed jobs already, and if you give him another month -"

" - Then things will turn a corner and it'll slow down," I sneered. "He's said that for years."

"Well, you have to believe him. You can't be mad at him for things he's done in the past. You have to live in the moment. If he makes you mad, let him know, that instant. Don't say 'fine' and hang up the phone. You have to own your feelings."

Hey, I thought, this is my fault, is that what you're saying? Who is paying you? I thought we were friends. This is about the hugging, isn't it.

The remarkable thing about that session was hearing an objective point of view. She seemed to suggest that Gary had a reason to complain. Gary! The Villain! And I imagine having a stranger say to him, "You've been neglecting your wife. She's pretty pissed," meant a lot more than hearing it from me.

Then she went back to talk to Gary, again, and then came back to me.

"I told him you were going to leave, that you were shopping for apartments. He said you were crazy." (As an aside, I had not yet shown any evidence of true insanity at this time.) "But he didn't say 'good riddance.' so I think you should come back in two weeks."

On the very tense drive home, I was crying, Gary was scowling, and at the stoplight to get on to Highway 94 he burst out and bellowed about how he needed to work. "Don't you get it?" And then he explained himself. Essentially, he was angry at himself for wasting many opportunities in his youth.

It had nothing to do with me.

Up till then, every time he chose work over me, I was insulted and hurt, since I wasn't as interesting or fun as work. Now I saw he was working to make up for being a "bad" son, a college dropout, a time waster.  And if he'd chosen me instead of work all those nights, he would still hate himself as much. I was completely irrelevant to the situation.

Well, I know I should say we fell into each other's arms, but of course no such thing happened. I stopped crying hours later when my first tea party guests arrived. We never made another appointment with the counselor. Gary started to say "I really would rather be at home with you, but I feel I need to finish this project." I started to say, "I am angry that you will not be home," but then I would make other plans. After a few months, we made love again, and I use that term sparingly. I think it was the only time I felt like we were "making love." I did love him much more after that one experience. (Then it was back to nasty, nasty fun-filled sex, but that one time was quite unusual.)

Eventually, after two years, we were back to giggly giddy love again. It hasn't been consistent adoration for the last 15 years, but I can stand the sight of him. And I like Friend #2's comment, we love each other more than pie.

The Troubles: Part One, The Troubles Begin (a humor-free post)

One week ago, on our 23rd anniversary, Gary and I were both looking up at the ceiling, and apropos of nothing, he held my hand and said, "I'm sorry I spent so much time at work when we were first married and having ... troubles."

The Troubles began in 1989. We had been married for four years, the year most troubles begin. The week we got married, Gary got a new job on first shift working as a data operator. It was his first job where he really had a chance to grow, and just a few years later he was manager of the data center.

The issue was that he was no longer on first shift. He was on first, second, and third, and if there'd been a fourth shift, he would have worked that too.

This is the phone call we would have every night:
I would ask, hurt, "Gary? Are you coming home for dinner? It's seven-thirty."
Gary would gush, excited, "Oh, no, I've got this [insert technical jargon here that I did not understand] project. It's really cool!"
"Cool." (sniff) "I guess it must be."
"Yeah, I get to try [more technical incomprehensible yammering] and it's [and more] so I [more tech words that meant he didn't love me or want me] ...and it's so cool!"
"Well. Fine."
"Yeah! And I -"
"Fine. I guess I won't see you tonight then."
"Nope!"
"Fine."
"Okay!"

Then I'd slam down the phone, which strangely sounds just the same on the other end as when you pleasantly hang up the phone.

If I did get a chance to see him, say on the weekend before he went in to work, I took that time to make sure he knew how angry and unhappy I was. I didn't have time to do anything but complain, I had only a small window for communication and there was a problem that needed solving.

This is the phone conversation after a year of that:
"So, Gary, I don't suppose you are actually coming home tonight."
"Oh, don't start. Why can't you be more supportive? This will let up soon, it's just a bad week"
"I've heard that before. I would support you if you worked, even, just ten hours a day."
"Just, just, don't bug me. I have enough pressure here at work."
"You know, if we broke up the only difference would be I'd probably have sex more often."

I wasn't fighting so much with him on the weekends, unless you count that one time I walked over and smacked the glasses off his face. I'm not proud of that. I could not stand the sight of him. Whereas Gary's point of view was that I was crazy. He had traded his programming job for another job that would be better pay, less work, and less programming. I don't think he asked me for my opinion.  He still stayed late, if not later. We weren't talking. Until one night, I broke the silence to tell him how unhappy I was, and he responded that maybe ... we should get a divorce.

(Not much of a cliffhanger, is it? I mean, you know everything works out. Still, I can't put you through another long post like this.)

Bottom, or Nearabouts

If it's in boldface, it was typed at 7:30, half an hour after Marcia, Flossy Friend #3, drove me home from Happy Hour with Friends #2 and #0.5. (Average Friends: approx 1.8) I had two Purple Hazes, which Libby explains is a Long Island Tea with that wussy Coke replaced with Chambord.

If it's in italics, it's 10:30, and I have a more sober perspective.

LEGEND: Drunk Sober

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

Purple Haze through a straw makes you:

1. Kiss friend #3 on the lips. Except it wasn;t oin the lips it was more on theteeth becsause she was gr4inning. Hot girld! Wants it! Her teeth are slimy bujt as she pointed out, well flossed.

I can not believe I was not thrown out of the bar/restaurant. For some reason, this seemed at the time to be entirely appropriate behavior. 

2. use such progfanity oin the bar that yhhou are accus3wed by friedn #3 of being an angreyt drunk. Follwoed by #!1, above,

I was very astonished to hear Marcia say I seemed angry. This is why I had to some her some love.

Days later: "Some her some love" instead of "give her some love." Obviously still impaired at 10:30.

3. Steal friend #0.5's water, I tell yhou, she was neglecting it and I didnt want to become dehyhdrated.

I kept trying to hail the waiter to get her more water. He was ignoring me FOR SOME MYSTERIOUS REASON. I don't remember how it came up, but I remember the waiter acknowledging I was hammered.

4. mnake sexul,a dwemands of yhour husband whiloe weareing a silk dreszsing gowqn and yhour zsung;la= -- try agin - your sungblasses.

I am happy to say this ended well. It ended well thanks to my husband's indulgence, just as Happy Hour ended well thanks to my friends' indulgence.

So here's my plan, next GNO is a week from tomorrow. I am going to bring all the Porch Wine O'Death, and let everyone else get drunk. Because I think I danced on the tightrope tonight - if I had a different set of friends I imagine they wouldn't have been entertained.

Bleaaaahhhhhhk!

Gary did something rare and special this morning on the side of Highway 94. He puked. He hasn't vomited since he was eight. He's 54 now.

He has tried to vomit. He stuck his arm down his throat when he thought he had food poisoning, when in actuality his gallbladder was self-destructing like a Mission Impossible tape. Of course, he can't make himself vomit. (He has no gag reflex because his extra-long uvula dangled on to his gag reflex as a child and dulled it. It didn't even help that later he had a clit ... uhh ...uvulectomy.)

But, today he didn't even have to try. He barfed all on his own like a big boy. Oh, well, he had some help from the antibiotics.

However, it would appear he has forgotten how to vomit.

Most people, when they vomit, assume a vomit position. A posture that says "PITY ME I AM BLOWING CHUNKS ON A HIGHWAY SHOULDER." Gary stood proud. He didn't even try to hunch over or grip his stomach. He just got out of the car, strode a few paces into the grass, put his arms akimbo, tucked his chin under, and hurled in a straight, confident line.

Then he spat and got back in the car.

Bad Day

I had a bad day.

• I made a string of stupid mistakes at work. Not stupid ha-ha, even, just stupid.
• I have poison ivy.
• Gary bellowed at me this morning because while I was doing some solo landscaping I piled some dirt in the middle of a mud puddle we haven't been able to get rid of. So, I put my dirt in Boss Man's hole. (Spend the night in the box.) (It's all movie references all the time here.) Essentially, I made his mud dirty.

And worst, I couldn't snap out of it. I even ate Cold Stone Ice Cream. German Chocolate Cake Ice Cream did no good. So, since the day was shot, I did two hours of paperwork I've been avoiding.

Then, things turned around.

• I taught the dog to claw at Gary's scalp when he wants to be petted. Currently, he claws me, but now he knows that clawing Gary makes me laugh.
• I laughed at myself, because I read the first chapter of The Yiddish Policemen's Union and was amazed that there was a huge Jewish settlement founded in Sitka Alaska in the late 40's. "How have I never heard of this?" I wondered. Usually I avoid the back covers for the same reason I cut off the TiVo before it shows me clips from "Next week's Grey's Anatomy," or whatever. But it makes me wonder, how many novels have I read that were alternative history?
• I found I live in driving distance of Louisville Kentucky/Indiana, where BNL is performing in the middle of next month. We can drive there, I have two nights hotel paid from a pre-sale, and it's a weekend.

My Husband Gary

Have you ever gone to the mechanic and complained of "a clattery noise -- you'll notice it if you go through a drive-through -- and there's this other sound like 'RRRRRR - rrrrrrr - RRRRRRR - rrrrrr?'"

After years of "Sure, Ma'am, we'll check it out," followed a few hours later by, "We couldn't find anything, Ma'am," the mechanics of the world have had their comeuppance and I have been vindicated and it is sweet.

"Clatter - RRRRRR - rrrrrrr - RRRRRRR - rrrrrr - clatter - here's your Tall Four Equal Wet Cappucino, Ma'am - clatter," means Mini owes you a new transmission.

Sweeeet. 

The best thing was when Gary asked me when I'd be getting my new "tranny."

I looked at him a moment. Then I looked some more.

He went with the preemptive move. He started stomping his foot and wailed, "and my biological clock is TICKING like THIS!"

Miraculous Cure

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it here, but the S_________ family feels it is their right to be evil if they are sick, and particularly evil to the person nursing them.

Gary is the worst. He berates you if you hand him the cough syrup and don't take off the cap.

This past week, thank God, he has discovered it isn't his raising that makes him this way. It's pseudoephedrine. There should be a street term for pseudoephedrine. The Psued'.

So, Wikipedia has this to say: "Pseudoephedrine, particularly in high doses, may also cause episodes of paranoid psychosis. "

Why, yes, Wikipedia, you were in my house last week. I was sleeping in bed, and Gary leaned over and shook me.

"Get out! You have to get out of this bed right now!"

"What? What did I do? I was sleeping!"

"YOU ARE MAKING ME INSANE! GET THE HELL OUT AND DON'T COME BACK."

Jesus, I thought, why did Wilma teach her child she has a right to be evil? Honestly, every time her husband yells at the kids or Grandkids she's right at his heels, apologizing, "Oh, he's not feeling well."

And now come to find out it's the psued' talking. He's shunned all cold medications except for Advil and Cepacol this week and he's been an angel. A miracle, I tell you.

As I have often suspected.

Gary was complaining about his sore throat.

"My throat's never hurt this bad," he moaned, clutching his neck. "Not even when I had my cliterectomy."

He almost immediately corrected himself. He meant uvulectomy. But still, I knew.

Google-Climbing

I'm all done with finding myself the destination for random Google searches. My focus has turned to Google searches that find me on the first page.

Long ago, you could find me at the top of the pile if you searched "hot sexy toes." I'm sure this summer I'll be back in the game, but I find that toe searches really scale back in the winter months. It seems counter-intuitive, I know. You'd think they'd be craving some of that pudgy toe-flesh in December, but no. Summer gets them all worked up.

So, here are the searches just this week that might make someone think I'm an expert on these topics.

"when i am old i shall wear purple" - Number five. In the WORLD. The Amazon book is two rungs below me.

"how to excite my husband" - Number three. This is sad, because I'm really no expert.

"john mclaughlin" harding colbert - Ha HAH! NUMBER ONE!  If you add, "Warren" I drop to the bottom of the page.

"can i take a vibrator on a cruise" - Number ONE! Number ONE!

"born without an asshole"  - I really expected to be Number One for this one, but evidently this artist titled this sculpture and knocked me down to second.

And, finally ...

"kathy griffin review" - Is Kathy Griffin.net Number One? No. Is IMDB Number One? No. Is TV.com Number One? No. What do those losers know? No, I AM THE NUMBER ONE SOURCE for Internet Kathy Griffin Reviews. I really like Kathy Griffin. I wish the review had been more glowing. I was just delighted to see her series on TiVo last night.

(P.S. - I'm still the #1 search for Spunky Labia, of course.)

Butterfly Party at My House

I wanted to place my order for monarch butterfly larvae, so I googled "Monarch butterfly larvae kit," which, if you are interested, IS one of the few google searches that doesn't result in porn.

On the way to my order, though, I found a message board, and someone suggested that perhaps they could raise their larvae at work. I briefly considered that, but I realized people would come by entirely too often, checking on the larvae and interrupting my work.

Then a butterfly expert suggested to someone else that instead of letting the butterflies free into the wild, she let the butterflies run free in her house, away from predators. "Huh," I thought, "I don't think the dogs would go after the butterflies. You'd just have to wait until they stopped leaking color. That would be kind of pretty and peaceful. Let me see what Gary thinks."

Gary thinks, "It puts the lotion in the basket." Creepy.

Weird Hello, Weird Goodbye

Hello
Gary and I went for our yearly physicals this morning. This meant I needed to leave my staff meeting early. I snuck out while we were introducing ourselves to Hysterical New Friend to Be Numbered Later. Of course, we had all met her, so we essentially went in a circle and reminded her of our inside jokes. I had met her while I was booty pooping while wearing my sunglasses and my bosses boss materialized and commented that I looked like a rock star.

So I slid on my sunglasses and announced, "Hi. I'm Ellen, the rock star." Then I split so suddenly no one could say much but "Goodbye, Rock Star."

I drove straight to the doctor, who greeted me with "Hello, Rock Star."

Freaked me out. "HOW did you KNOW that?"

He said, "Gary told me. The Incestuous Pandas!"

As it turned out, the doctor had already started Gary's physical, and Gary had mentioned my guitar playing and moaning that our band  has yet to rehearse. Just a fluky coincidence.

Goodbye
The doctor always puts Gary and I in adjacent exam rooms, so we can occupy our wait time talking via the ventilation system. This also lets me listen in on Gary and correct his lies when it's time for my part of the visit. Dr. F_______ bounces between us like a marriage counselor. 

When the doctor first came in to visit me, I noticed he had on a wrist brace.

"Aww. What happened?

"Carpal tunnel," he flatly announced.

"Poor thing," I said, automatically, because I have been trained to say "Poor thing / sweet baby / poor guy / poor sweet pumpkin" (or any combination) in response to a man moaning about his ailments. I didn't coo it; it wasn't awkward.

However, as we were saying goodbye, he said something nice about Mom, then something nice about me. I paused awkwardly, then I said, "Aw, sweet baby." Because I swear, I'd just heard Gary cough a great Pity Me Cough in the other room. But of course the doctor heard:

"Your Mom is an amazing woman."

"Yes she was"

"And so are you."

"... Aw, sweet baby."

"Excuse me?"

"NO! No! That was for Gary!"

"Gary?"

"He just coughed. He's a poor sweet baby."

So, I've got misunderstandings coming and going.

In Which I Am A Magnet

Things I have attracted today:

Presidential candidates. Well one, anyway. Barack Obama ('Rack, I call him) was at Big Barnes the same time I was this morning. Barnes Hospital is now endorsed by two in seven Presidential candidates, and mysteriously I was there on both occasions. This means I spend way too much time at Barnes.

Smiles. If you are having a big day of tests for a clinical trial, it makes people smile when you wear this:

Tests. Urine, blood, blood on ice (why, I asked, and she said "PK" as if I knew what that meant), EKG, pegs in holes, memory/math test, vision, pulmonary function, disability level, and MRI. I'm pretty sure everything is good except for maybe the MRI.

Vehicles. I was trying to recover the sense I had last night when I got all teary because of the contribution I'm making to science. I had backed out of my parking space ($7.50), and before I stepped on the gas I was plowed into by someone in a Saturn. My Mini Cooper has an unsightly dent in the passenger door. 

Husband of the driver popped out of the car and asked nicely if we could just settle this without involving the insurance companies. I have been through that before with the uninsured woman in Grubville, MO. My sense is that the wife who was driving wasn't insured. 

So here I was starting to feel all Spartacus and these people want me to do them a favor in return for hitting my car. Mmph. I think not. Spartacus has to draw the line somewhere.

Living History

So I was sitting here, envying Catherine the Red for being a cousin of John Glenn, when Stephen Colbert brought up my family connection to greatness, Warren G Harding. Colbert played a clip of John McLaughlin saying Warren G Harding was black.

"That sounds right," I thought, "where have I read that?"

It was in the biography of First Lady Florence Harding, which is the genealogy Bible of my Mom's family. Florence married my great-great uncle (give or take a great).

Page 38 of the book says Warren was said to have a black grandmother, and that as such Florence's father didn't want them to marry. This after Florence divorced my great-great uncle Petey DeWolfe. Petey was a compound of addictions who would stamp the mold for husbands on my distaff side down to, but not inclusive of, Gary.

(Oh, for God's sake. See that? That's what happens when you compliment a few phrases from a recent  post. I'm like a dog jumping too high for a ball. I should edit that ... but now that seems dishonest. Live with it. Laugh at it.)

Anyway, since Mom's family is famous for an ex-husband able to embarrass Warren Gamaliel, you may wonder what historical figures were on Jerry's side. I know my last name once meant "small fenced-in backyard." I think that says it all right there. Also, my grandfather and great-uncles had to tie their father to a tree so he'd get over his opium addiction. Nothing good there.

It amazes me that Gary's evidently freaking wealthy immigrant mobster relatives would let him marry me. I am finding this change in family dynamic weighs heavily on me. Here it turns out in a freak twist that they have the "resources," as Trollope might say, and my gentry has faded and fallen on hard times, and I DO NOT LIKE THAT ONE BIT.

UPDATE: Wait! Daniel Webster. Or was it Noah Webster? Thank God I suddenly remembered Della Webster DeWolfe.