Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

World War One Museum In Kansas City

I've wanted to see the World War One Museum in KC since Dave at Blogography gave it such a glowing review. Before I went, here's what I knew about WWI:

• In Flanders field the poppies blow
• Archduke Ferdinand
• Downton Abbey Season 2
• Doughboys
• Lusitania

Not exactly World War One for two hundred, Alex. I stepped into the museum, bought a ticket, crossed the clear bridge over the poppy field and was met by a docent who asked, "Why do we use the poppy to symbolize World War One?"

"InFlandersfieldsthepoppiesgrow," I rattled off, smugly. ERRRBUZZNO. Wrong answer! Well, I think she gave me points for knowing the poem (points off for switching "blow" with "grow"), but the correct answer [spoilers, if you plan to go] is that the weaponry contained nitrates that killed all the plants ... except poppies. Evidently poppies love nitrates, so Flanders fields were dead except for the nitrate-sucking poppies.

And that glimpse of red poppies was as uplifting as the experience got. You walked over the blighted field with the pretty poppies and that's the last you see of life and happiness for a few hours.

As a museum, the presentation is just incredible. We've seen guns and posters and cannons before, but what about peeking into a bunker and hearing the sounds? Standing in a giant hole made by a shell? Sitting in a tiny room while "Dulce Et Decorum Est" is read to you?

Gary only made it through Flanders Fields, Dulce Et Decorum Est, and one other before he couldn't take it anymore. It's a sad museum. But of course, since it's an American museum, it's divided into two parts: the War before America, and the War after America. In fact, it's literally divided into two parts: the first part starts with war posters for the European war years, then there's a short film about the war just before America joined in, then war posters for the American war years.

The layout of the place forces you to draw comparisons. You pass that entry to the U.S. years and there are gleaming weapons and scalpels and fancy tanks and guns and all the war-winning stuff, while the pre-America side has klunky grenades on sticks.

I don't think I've said "I didn't know that" as often in any museum. For example, why did the U.S. enter the war? The Lusitania, right? I distinctly remember that exam question in Jr. high. BUZZZNO!  The Zimmerman telegram disclosed that the enemy bribed Mexico to attack us. Again, I had no idea.

Eventually we made it through the war, came out the other side, and did not have the emotional strength to climb up to the upper exhibits or the tower.

I remember seeing Gallipoli in college. When it was over and Mel Gibson was all riddled with bullets my date snarled, "HAPPY NOW?" After the museum, Gary, bless him, just said he was depressed.

My Relationship with the Raphael Hotel

I can walk into a Super8 motel and be above it all, certainly. Even more, I can walk nearly naked yet unblushing through the lobby of the Jazz in Chicago. I can even chat pleasantly with the front desk at the Hotel Lancaster in Paris (as an equal, though, not as a ruler. Liberté, égalité, fraternité.)

Yet for some reason the Raphael Hotel in Kansas City turned me into a Jerry-Lewis-level doofus. I was not the aristocrat in any transaction.

It's not them, it's me. Everyone at the hotel was tremendously helpful and friendly.

First, we had a rough drive down. We were both on edge. Gary was so on edge that when said "turn here!" at the entrance of the Raphael, he insisted, "No! This isn't it! This is the Rape-hall Hotel!" I was no better: when the valet opened my car door I had my hands full, then I had to find my car key. After a minute of fumbling I dumped the tangle of iPhone chargers into his hands so I could dig through my purse.

So, my chance to gracefully exit the car, perhaps murmur "why thank you" and press a tip in his hand was shot. Then, I was rattled enough to answer the front desk honestly when they asked how my trip had been. Then, I overshared that the night manager had a very pleasing face. I just dug myself a big hole and climbed the social ladder right down to the bottom.

As we opened the door to the room I vowed to be genteel the next time I encountered anyone. Then I fell in love with the room. I don't like what most hotels call a "suite," often it's just a normal room with more air. This one was three rooms: the bed room, the sitting room, and the bathroom.

The water pressure in the shower could peel off a layer of skin, and the toilet flush echoed down the hall. Turbo shower, turbo toilet, comfy beds, giant tv.

The next day I went down to breakfast and fawned over the waitress and the food. I went to the front desk and grovelled and cooed when they loaned us a tie to replace one Gary forgot. (It was the official hotel staff tie. Gary threatened to walk about and give orders like a boss.)

Then, I couldn't get in the room. The key didn't seem to work. It just flashed red and green. The front desk explained that meant someone in the room had thrown the deadbolt. I explained that meant Gary was taking a shower. SEE? WHY? Why must I open my mouth? It was like i was a giggly girl with a crush.

At about this time Gary began tipping both valets simultaneously: literally, tipping with both hands.

I swore again to be cool and elegant the next time I saw the staff. Instead, I had some KC BBQ and had to gush to the front desk and the bellman how great it was while I stuffed a complimentary cookie into my maw. I talked with my mouth full. The final straw.

I went to bed and swore to be the reserved lady the next day, the one who fits in to such a nice place.

I woke up and dropped a full cup of coffee on the carpet. Coffee bomb all over the floor and wall. I sacrificed three clean towels to clean it up.

So of course I had to skip the express checkout and apologize in person to the front desk. They were, of course, very nice about it.

I must return in disguise someday and be the type of guest they deserve, instead of a hoosier doofus, which is what I am.

Where I've Been

I've been watching our niece graduate in Kansas City. Gary's quite a good travelling companion when there's no work tape running in his head.

Right now I am wiped out, so instead of telling you the plans we are slowly carving OR the hotel OR the family we met OR the WWII museum, I present you with a much more practical link: How To Order Off the Menu At McDonald's.

Fine eggs and a tie

Gary forgot his tie, and when I wondered aloud to the front desk where I could find one before nine they loaned us a tie. Very nice. The eggs Benedict are as nice as the service.

This place speaks my language

How skinny is this asparagus?

How skinny is this asparagus?

My hair is thicker than this asparagus. 

This is the New Princess Merida of asparagus.

Abercrombie and Fitch wants to knit this asparagus a custom sweater.

Bon Mot In Waiting

Now that the news has broken that some wealthy Moms hire disabled tour guides so their kids can go to the front of the line, I can not WAIT until the MS gets me. I'll be plunked into that wheelchair and announce, "I'M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!"

Sad State of Affairs

We were in the car Sunday when Gary decided to molest me. I don't remember why. Usually he just honks my breast, which stimulates nothing but an eye roll, but this time he opted to rub vigorously at my privates.

"First," I announced, "You are an inch away from what you are aiming at. And second, what you are aiming at is covered up by a Poise pad."

He was a lot less repelled than I thought he would be.

Every Time I Get Him Out They Pull Him Back In

Here was the conversation at the S______'s, late Mother's Day.

Ken said, "Oh, Gary, I hear they're hiring in the IT department at Boeing"

"Dad, I'm retired."

 "Well, if you get --"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," I shrieked.

I had to howl because it was the third time someone suggested Gary re-join the work force. I only just now got him into the house! I don't want him to leave. I'd like him to see all the other things he has other things to offer to humanity. No, that's a lie. I don't want him to offer anything to anyone but himself, and sometimes me.

He loaded the dishwasher this week after I unloaded it and left it gaping open. Baby steps.

He decided tonight he'd had enough Starbucks through the years and it was time to step back from The Teat. I think there must be a happy medium between "FOUR STARBUCKS A DAY!" and "NO MORE STARBUCKS EVER IT IS DEAD TO ME."

I think I've found out which Workaholic type he is. The All or Nothing.

We Are Entertained

Well, I just finished The Handmaids Tale and it was delicious. Gary asked me what it was about and I knew if I told him I'd ruin the first third of the book, in which she drops the exposition like little crumbs. I loved it, screamed when it "ended" right before the epilogue, and thank you to all who recommended it.

Gary's first project in retirement is to watch every episode of Alias ever, but as a warm-up he watched all two seasons of Todd and the Book of Pure Evil. I enjoyed it as well. The high-school insults are remarkably creative. I'm waiting till the first moment Hot Mom slips up so I can call her a "dick mitten."

I would be interested in going to see The Great Gatsby, but how can anyone but Robert Redford be Gatsby? Of course, Carey Mulligan is more like the Daisy in my head than Mia Farrow. All I really care about seeing is the woman who has shaved off and repainted her eyebrows. That image has never left me.  

I am ashamed to say the plot did not stay with me from high school or the seventies movie. If you asked me yesterday what I remembered about Gatsby it would be the images: pastel shirts, yellow convertible, shaved eyebrows, spectacle billboard, green light and boats beating toward the shore. There's a plot though. I totally forgot how Gatsby ended up. ([SPOILER!]Dead in the pool!) I probably don't remember the plot since there was no conflict between new money and old money in my middle class life.

I'm the same way about all the books I read in class in the high school. I remember the rat mask from 1984 but not the plot. (I think I've confused the plot of 1984 with Brazil.) We read The Old Man and the Sea, and I remember the Man vs Nature conflict but not a single bit of the man's story. He catches the fish and dies at the end? Right? I had no conflict with nature, myself, certainly not surviving on a boat with a big fish.

Of course, I can best remember the books about my two daily conflicts: Man vs Snotty People (The Scarlet Letter, any Austen book) and Man vs The Right Thing To Do (Raisin in the Sun, The Crucible).

I can't criticize my reading list too much, because my newly-integrated high school chose South Pacific for the musical, Raisin in the Sun and, strangely, Huckleberry Finn, which we had to read out loud to appreciate the dialect. If I recall the N-word discussion, the teacher wrote it on the board, said "I hate this word," told us the etymology and carefully selected only reading passages that didn't have that word in there, and otherwise we were to remember Huck's ignorance when we saw it.

Truth be told, watching Gary sleep and watch tv till the wee hours has put me off home-based amusements. I need a project. It might be time to divide the peonies. No, wait, i need to re-learn the guitar first.

Tonight's Google Search: What Happens When Workaholics Retire?

What Happens When Workaholics Retire?

Executive Summary: It's bad.

The Long Version, written specifically for us with the help of recording devices planted in our house disguised as common household ants and spiders, says the retired workaholic:

• Depends on excessive consumption of alcohol or prescription medication. (Neh.)

• Has no close friends. (Well, yeah.)

• Watches television constantly and yells at pundits on the screen. (And is named ... Gary! And has a gallbladder scar, we know, we've seen him naked.)

• Interactions with family members are by force, not choice. (This one doesn't sound like Gary at all.)

• Can be verbally abusive.

• Impatient with others.

• Suffers from depression and anxiety. (Hope not. Too soon to tell.)

• Nothing pleases him and there is no joy or happiness in his life. (Right now the TV show Alias brings him great Joy.)

Some articles suggest transitioning with a two-three month period of nothing, followed by a hobby. (I said one month, but okay, three months works too.)

They suggest:

• Woodworking
• Writing his memoirs
• Designing building plans for a future home (BIG HOUSE DREAM come to life!)
• Discovering new genres of porn
• Running, swimming, body building (I can see this)
• Taking classes in painting
• Teaching himself to repair electronics
• Painting the house
• Building and maintaining a vegetable garden (I can see this too)
• Restoring an old or classic vehicle (nope)

The article suggests you determine what type of workaholic you are dealing with and steer him (very gender biased) toward the right set of hobbies, but I can't tell what type Gary is. He seems to be the savoring type that doesn't like projects to end.

All I know is the article wraps up the workaholic section with "please consider professional counseling because retirement can easily expand into decades of misery for all involved."

Précis: DECADES of MISERY.