Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

T-Minus 10

This is grim. I had a grim little epiphany sometime this weekend.

My grandmother Lucille (Granceil) had three children, Jimmy, Delores, and Mom.

Jimmy

I could post a photo of Jimmy, but you wouldn't believe it - he was a perfect, curly- haired tow-headed boy. The photo of him as a toddler in the thirties looks like an advertisement. When he was five he got scarlet fever and Granceil was told she had to put him in the children's Quarantine hospital. 

On his death certificate a month laster, the doctor listed: "scarlet fever, measles, mumps, chicken pox, rubella, whooping cough." When Granceil asked why so many illnesses were listed, the doctor told her Jimmy caught all those other diseases in the hospital, and he might have lived if he'd been allowed to stay at home. 

Margaret (Mom)

A few years after Jimmy died Granceil had Delores and then two years after that, Mom. Mom got polio when she was 13, in 1947. The doctors explained to Granceil that it was quite possible that Mom's immune system was too weak to fight off the polio virus because Granceil was very clean, and specifically, "washed the grapes."

Delores

Delores, Mom's slightly older sister, was a poor replacement for Jimmy from the day she was born. She sassed, she disobeyed, she grew up to have boobs and boyfriends and an abortion. At 19, she and "Aunt" Carleen drove to visit Mom during her second year at Columbia. It was raining, and her car spun out of control on Hwy 40. Carleen survived, but Delores was thrown from the car, hit her head on a milepost and died instantly. While the doctors did not place the blame for this one on her, Granceil still felt responsible.

Then, after all that, Granceil started taking in foster children during the next ten years, until her daughter and grandkids arrived from Houston after Mom's divorce. I asked Mom why Granceil would want to take in foster kids; she said she thought Granceil wanted to get it "right" at least once.

So, if anyone asks why I don't have children, I can point them back to family history. We can't be trusted with them.

The Title, Were I to Use it, Is NSFW

So, I wasn't sure what to expect over Thanksgiving. The KC contingent (Sandy, Arzanna-fay and Arhan-fay) joined the Wonderfuls and the S_____s for the enormous turkey / dressing / cranberry / potato / pasta con broccoli / vegan tofurkey  buffet.

Afterward, while we were working through our various issues with flatulence (Sandy),  eructation (Karen), diarrhea (Gary), and my weekly 45-minute visit from Colin (it was Thursday), Wilma was quietly critiquing a Lush bath bomb Gary had brought her the month before.

"All this papery stuff came out of it! It was everywhere. I was afraid it would get in my TWAT."

"AGGGHHHHHH! " Gary screamed, while I asked, "Papery stuff?"

I have discussed the term TWAT with Wilma before, but this is the first time she heard Gary's reaction.  And if you are from a country friendly with the term TWAT, know that here it is only second to the other term, which is so heinous in our country I don't even like to say the word "country." "Twatry" would be a little preferable.

For an example of TWAT intolerance, the women on the cruise message board were comparing techniques for tidying up after the act, someone suggested hand towels, and someone said, "if they were next to your bed for the sole purpose of after-sex-clean up wouldn't they be twat towels instead of hand towels?" That was promptly dinged by the moderator. (If you are curious about things not considered over-the-top, peruse the rest of the thread here.)

So, if the term TWAT is offensive to you, I fully understand. But, Back to Wilma complaining about TWAT-unfriendly Lush  products.

Wilma said, "And I got in the bath before I dropped the bath ball in, too. Otherwise I'd have stayed out. A lady would never get in to the tub with all that stuff in it, If you know what I mean."

"Why not?" our niece asked, because she hadn't been paying attention, and now everyone was half paying attention.

"Well! Because it would get in your TWAT!" Wilma said, shocked.

Simultaneous screaming
Arzaana-fay: "VAGINA! VAGINA!"
Gary: "AGGGGHHHHH!"
Karen: "What? I call it a TWAT! Mom's right."
Sandy: "Hoo-ha! Hoo-ha!" (Evidently that's the Muslim term.)

In  response
Wilma: "It's my TWAT! That's not a bad word."

Simultaneously
Me: "Wilma, it's the second-worst thing you can call your vagina."
Ken: "Why are we talking about your TWAT? The kids don't want to hear about your TWAT!"
Gary (moaning): "Noooo!"
Karen: "What's wrong with TWAT?"

Even after seeing the full group reaction, Wilma is still going to say TWAT, of course. Like in the Vagina Monologues, she's taking back TWAT, and nothing will deter her.

TWWW...TWAAAA...TWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!

Thanksgving Miracle

I could go into greater detail but my head IS going to explode.

Let Mac the Dog out.

Began making Green Bean Casserole.

Heard a dog howling and baying.

Looked out to see if it was Mac.

Was not Mac.

Then a deer loped through our yard and was in my peripheral vision before I registered - "DEER!"

I screamed "Shit!"

Deer hopped the fence.

Mac was surprised then peed on the fence the deer had hopped over.

I ran out in the street in my pajamas looking for more deer.

An excellent way to waste Thanksgiving

www.yearbookyourself.com

The name of the band is cowboy mouth

I don't know what this is but it was on the soundboard

Cowboy Mouth: part the third: the preface

This is Love. (Baby, Don't Hurt Me.) Not Safe for Work!

Guys, I love you all, and the candy apples were lovely, Becs, but I'd just like to point out what some commenters send to Bloggers.

And Then I Retired My Number

A month or so ago someone else was posting about practical jokes. I thought back to my younger days and remembered I had once worked with a pair of jokers. We played the run of typical office jokes (switch key caps, change settings to the Dvorak keyboard, toilet paper a cube, all the classics). They also flipped my (non-modular) office desk about so all the drawer pulls were against the wall.

I wondered why I stopped sparring with those cute boys, then I remembered I had won our merry war. After that, of course, Silas and Stephen stopped pranking me because there was no way they could top me.

I had the element of surprise on my side. All our battles had been fought on office grounds. One day, though, Stephen slipped up and told Silas and I that he was going to send an entry in to the Pillsbury Bake-off.

"For my Pizza Thangs." (Stephen was southern.)

"What's a Pizza Thing?" Silas asked.

Stephen explained he would take Pillsbury crescent roll dough, and roll up mozzarella and pepperoni, then slice it into rounds. And bake in a pre-heated 375 degree oven. Until golden-brown.

We both encouraged Stephen to send in the Pizza Things recipe. Silas encouraged him because Silas was sweet; I encouraged him because my Great-Aunt Rosemary had retired from Pillsbury and now sent all her personal correspondence on pilfered Pillsbury stationery.

 

So after a visit to the Kinkos color copier I typed up a rejection letter from the fine people at the Pillsbury Bake-Off Committee on my new letterhead.

Dear Sir:

We have reviewed your entry for "Pizza Thing" Canapes. We regret to inform you that your submission will not advance through our review process, as it has not met the standards we expect of a Pillsbury Bake-Off submission. For example, it has absolutely no nutritional value. Pillsbury is committed to families and good health. We sincerely hope you are not feeding Pizza Things to children.

Additionally, if someone wanted to eat mozzarella and pepperoni they could purchase Totino's® Pizza Rolls® Snacks, another fine Pillsbury product.

Pizza Things are quite possibly the worst entry we have ever seen. Please refrain from making any more Bake-Off submissions in the future. We suggest you stop cooking entirely.

Cordially,

L. N.  S_______

Bake-Off Facilitator

Then I had a friend mail it from California, and I waited. I waited for Stephen to come in to the office as wild as my boyfriend Michael had been when I stuck the Reagan/Bush bumper sticker to his car. But I could only wait so long. After a month I said,

"Stephen! What ever happened with the Bake-Off? Did you win?" and I grinned.

"Yeah," Silas added, "Did you ever hear anything?"

Stephen said, "Oh, I got this really snotty letter from them!"

My smile dropped. I said, "You have got to be kidding me."

"No, you guys, I felt so bad. They were all, 'Don't ever cook again.'"

Silas said, "Wow."

I sighed and said, "Did you happen to notice the signature?"

"No."

"Did you happen to notice the letter was from someone named  'L. N.?'"

"Huh?"

"L. N. .. a Bake-off Facilitator named L. N. ...  L. N. ...  Ellllll...ennnnnn."

Silas caught on first, then he and I had a lovely moment reveling in Stephen's confusion. Eventually he said, "Oh thank God. I thought I was a really bad cook." Then of course he was appropriately outraged, and it was sweeter because who would not catch on that that was a joke?

The sad ending was that no one ever even tried to retaliate. It is lonely to be Queen.

In Which I Actually Enjoy A Guy Movie

Usually I hate dick flicks. Stuff blows up ... then there's a fight ... then a car chase ... I yawn ... more stuff blows up... all of which takes up twenty minutes and advances the plot by about twenty seconds.

However, it seems I do like Philip K. Dick flicks, like Blade Runner, Total Recall, and the one I saw tonight, Next.

Next has a great premise (guy can see the future, but only 2 minutes ahead), and a good plot, and excellent music. (Or at least I thought it was excellent.)  And best of all, the credits were even good. No cutesy after-the-credits crap; that trick's never been able to top the first one: The Muppet Movie. Still, there was a nice twist on the credits.

Gary said I only had to watch the first ten minutes and I could go away if I was bored. And as I say, I even enjoyed the chase scenes. It really was delightful.

Perhaps this has something to do with the change of life.

When I Was First Married

I had a wretched sinus infection today. Last week Marcia³  scored a headache-free sinus infection that made itself known when her uvula touched the back of her tongue. The headache for this one is unfazed by Sudafed, Advil, and saline spray. So of course, my initial biological reaction to pain is to have sex. (It makes sense. Head feels bad? Make other part(s) feel good.) Unfortunately, I wanted some male cooperation, and I knew I'd have to shower, and instead I chose to go with my second biological reaction: Clean the house. Usually the cleaning follows as a natural result from the afterglow, but this time it was because I can't be sick in a dirty house.

As I was cleaning, and scrubbing, and replacing the sheet that covers the box springs, and sanding and refinishing part of the wood floor, I thought how my housecleaning skills have declined.

When I Was First Married:

• After I cleaned the sink, I rubbed Turtle Wax all over it to give it that extra shine.

• I glutted my wood furniture with Lemon Pledge until it took an hour to absorb each time.

• I dusted the light bulbs.

• I wiped the water spots off the butter knives with Windex.

• I dusted the tracks of the windows.

• I took compressed air to the knick-knacks.

I don't do any of those things anymore, whether I'm sick or not. And even with those reduced expectations, I only got one room clean anyway. Still, I'll be sleeping off my headache in a sterile environment.

First World Problem

Gary took the day off. I called him at four to say I was coming home a little early, and did he need anything?

"CAN you bring home SOME FOOD? There is nothing to eat in this house! I am starving. All I've had today is sugar-free gum and water!"

"What about those two frozen pizzas?"

"Well, I'd have to cook them!"

"And?"

"I'm too weak! Starving!"

"So.. eggs? No, you'd have to cook. The chicken soup in the freezer? You wouldn't be cooking if you just used the microwave."

"Microwaved food doesn't taste the same."

"What about assembly? Could you eat bread and butter?"

"NO bread! There is no bread in this house!"

"Fine. Eat a can of black olives while I'm at the grocery."

Whimper. "Are they the new kind with a pull tab or do I have to find the can opener?"

(Okay, to be fair, I didn't remember the black olives but that is exactly what he would have said.)

Don't worry, I brought him home lots of food. No bread, because then he might starve to death instead of using the toaster.

I Was Raised in a Cave Where We Didn't Have These

So, at The Wedding Shower To Which I Was Not Invited, there was a group gift for the bride and groom to be. I had no idea what it was, since, as you know, I had only been invited the day before. So I was as surprised as the groom when he partially tore off the wrapping, and I saw a box depicting this:

"Oooo!" the groom said, "We were just talking about getting one of these!" 

I thought, "Great. What the hell is it?" Then he tore off almost all of the paper and revealed "FIREPLACE." Then these thoughts ran through my head:

Oh! A fireplace! So it's not a combination coffee table / birdcage. 
That would be a real focal point for a living room.
That would be convenient if you had take-out.
Of course, if you had a lot of greasy take out and you disposed of it in the middle of your living room, then how could you control how high the fire got?
What about the smoke?

The groom said more thank yous and finally tore off the rest of the paper, revealing "OUTDOOR FIREPLACE."

"Oh, thank God," I blurted, "It goes outside! Because I was thinking that's dangerous, you know?"

When the Estrogen Fades, the Testosterone Takes Over

When I worked for Elliot, I was known for my balls. I'd been there almost twenty years and had taken to speaking quite pointedly to bosses, co-workers, and on occasion clients. Then I quit to take this job at the puppy mill, TeddyJ, and my testicles ascended back into my body. I lay on my back in front of my new coworkers, and when they rub my belly they only feel withered little knobs where my balls used to be.

However, yesterday I was in a small group listening to one particular co-worker. I noticed he wasn't listening to me when I mentioned the filename had to be BUS_DEV, and he answered with, "And see how I blah blah..."

I spoke up. "I don't know if you heard me, but the filename must be BUS_DEV -"

I realized he wasn't listening, so I waited until he was at the filename screen. I said, "The filename has to be BUS_DEV."

He typed in another filename. I said, "No. Wrong. It must be BUS_DEV."

He said, "Huh? What's the filename?"

I sighed, "BUS. ... DEV."

He looked right at me and snipped, "Well! There's no need to be all bitchy about it."

I felt a stirring in my pants.

I answered, "There'd have been no need to get all bitchy if you had listened to me the first three times when I said it pleasantly."

Oh, and then there was an awkward silence. My new balls swelled up to fill the awkward silence. I took pleasure in the warmth and weight of my new balls. I mentally stroked them and said, "Welcome back, boys."

This is Why I Like to Have Lunch with Friend #3

At lunch yesterday I discussed the Jonestown tragedy with friend #3, Marcia. Both CNN and MSNBC had special coverage of it this weekend, and since I can only watch Fox for so long, I watched both "Jonestown: 25 Years Later" reports.

I mentioned to Marcia that I'd gone to Wikipedia to see if the poison was delivered in "fruit punch" as the documentaries said or "Kool-Aid." (It was "Flavor-Aid," a Kool-Aid knock-off). I mentioned I was surprised that the phrase "Drinking the Kool-Aid" didn't show up until almost ten years later.

Marcia remembered the Heaven's Gate suicide, and that the only joke she'd heard about it was: "So many idiots, so few comets."

Marcia and I are going to substitute "I drank the Kool-Aide" with "I laced up the Nikes." It's just more topical, since it's been 11 years.

Dove of Prophecy

I was at work, reading my email and eating Dove Chocolate Squares, the ones with the sayings inside the wrapper.

The email said that a co-worker, Joy, would be working from home since she had a sore throat and didn't want to spread it around.

This is the wrapper of the next chocolate I opened:

 

I didn't get to eat that square because I dropped it and screamed.

Well, okay, I ate it anyway.  But it was still freaky.

News

Fires must be the worst natural disaster.

Fire vs Tornado. Neh. Even if you see a tornado, tornadoes bounce around and can totally miss your house. Not so with fire.

Fire vs Hurricane. No contest. Hurricanes automatically slow down when they hit land. It seems like you have to wait weeks before a fire will stop.

Fire vs Earthquake. Hm. Well, equally destructive, but at least with an earthquake you stand some chance of not being right at the epicenter. Do fires burn less at the edges? I don't think so.

Fire vs Tsunami. They say drowning to death is actually kind of peaceful.

Can you tell I'm afraid of fire?

DoppleGary: The Reckoning

Remember DoppleGary? The guy with Gary's name? His creditors would call us after finding my "Gary S____"  in the phone book?

And remember the Return of DoppleGary when his creditors began calling again?

Well, I hold DoppleGary's finances in my hands now. Hear now the tale.

First, a few months ago we got a phone call from a lawyer's office looking for Marla or Gary S_____. "Who the hell is this Marla woman?" I thought, "Mrs. DoppleGary's name is Elaine" (hence much of the confusion). I called the lawyer back and left a message about how my Gary was Gary E. S_____ and the other Gary is Gary X. S_____, and if he can find Gary X., I sure would like to know his phone number so I could forward all my calls to him.

Then yesterday, "Marla" got a letter from Bank of America, the bank favored by two out of two Gary S_____s. Based on my calculations, Marla's credit card is up to $150,000.00. They tell her  "Based on your recent payment history, we did not write off the above-referenced account as a bad debt last month." When I called Bank of America today to set them straight, they explained they just look up the address in their database and USE THE FIRST ONE, because of course THAT wouldn't be a problem. It's just that Gary E. comes before Gary X.

"Well who is Marla, then?" I asked, writing down "Gary X."
"Oh, that's his wife."
"Last time I heard his wife was Elaine.  Too bad they broke up. Aw, and they had a baby. Darn."
"Yes. Well, I'm sorry, that letter should have gone to Gary and Marla at 789 C_____ Estates Drive."
"Oh, no problem," I said, scribbling away.

There was a slight let down after I hung up and immediately Googled 789 C_____ Estates Drive MO got nothing. But then I looked up just C_____ Estates Drive MO ... and there's one in West County ... and at 1789 we have Gary and Marla S_____.

Google found them because they are selling their house. Their MILLION DOLLAR HOUSE.

At one time, Gary and Marla were trying to sell it for 1.5 MILLION DOLLARS. Now it's on sale for 1.2 MILLION DOLLARS. "MASSIVE PRICE REDUCTION!! Perfect Home!" Google screamed at me. Then Google Satellite whispered, "Look, they don't have a pool, but their neighbors do." I won't post the picture, but I'll show you what a brand new Million dollar home looks like elsewhere:

 

The square footage is over four times what we have. But I guess that's the penalty for paying your bills.

Oh, yeah, Google coughed up their phone number in about twenty seconds after I saw the photo. Gary saw the photo and said, "You can't give their creditors that number! I bet they have a lawyer living over their garage! They would sue us!"

But I could still get them. Somehow. I know where they live.

You decide: No mat

You decide: Mat

It Would Be A Pain to Carry Your Groceries Down That Hill

We were watching House. In the first few minutes, Gary said,

"That guy's got that thing - what's that called? The thing where you can't go outside?"

"Oh. Yeah ... acropophobia. That's it."

He started to laugh, which annoyed me. I was forced to answer his laughter. 

"What is your problem? Acropophobia.  Fear - " (I explained haughtily) - "of the marketplace."

"No," he hooted, "That's fear of the Acropolis." (Guffaw.)

I almost said, "Well of course, that's where they had the marketplace," but I decided to cut my losses and look it up.

Agoraphobia. But you knew that.

A Classic

So, once, there was an old man in the neighborhood. All the kids knew him as "Dr. Dolittle" because he was so good with animals. When pets would get sick the old man always knew what to do. When a bird broke its wing the kids would take the bird to the old man, and he would nurse it back to health.

One day a grownup noticed the old man hadn't been seen out in a while. One thing led to another and the police were called to make sure the old man was okay.

The police broke in to the old man's house and found not only that the man was, sadly, dead, but they also found an astonishing amount of Nazi memorabilia (!) including a photo of the old man in his youth with Hitler (!!).

The police informed the neighbors what they had found. Everyone was astonished because they always assumed he was just a kindly old man who healed animals, not a veteran Aryan.

I wish you a memorable Amistice / Veteran's / Remembrance Day, everyone.

Nanananananananana Bat Churrrch!

There is a church in my town that is so desperate for God's attention they have a searchlight. It isn't a "LOW LOW DEALS" pivoting searchlight - it's more like the searchlights they put out at the World Trade Center Site every 9/11.

Picture one beam of this:

 

... coming out of a church. Gary dearly wants to paint the Bat Signal on it;  he went as far as parking in their lot in order to case the joint.

As you can imagine, This Little Light of Theirs has inspired hatred in the community. I have no idea what the church is called, because everyone has a pet name for the landmark: "... not as far as the Jay-zus Beam Church," "... behind the UFO Lighthouse," "... just past Those Searchlight Assclowns."

I know Friend #4 has the background on the church / community kerfuffle, she says enough people complained that they dialed down the searchlight. It's just as bright and just as annoying, but at least now they don't have it on every single night. They shut it down nights church isn't in session. It's a Baptist church, so ... that would be Tuesday.

I can't pinpoint why this church so annoys Gary and me. I usually love attention whores, and clearly Gary does too. I'd applaud a gay nightclub with a sky-brushing Phallus of Light. But when our travels take us past this church, we ritually shake our fists at it. (We also shake our fists at the State Farm office a block away, at the Wal-Mart, and a Steak-n-Shake where we had some cold fries.) People who advertise their religion don't bother me, I'm cool with all the Hasidic Jews I've met, or I would be if I'd ever seen one.

I think my issue is that the beacon is the modern-day equivalent of a steeple - only it's just too grand. I wonder if a heathen shook her fist at the first church steeple just because it  ruined the view. And reminded her she isn't going to church.

It's Everywhere You Want to Be

A belated post. After this happened in Canada a few months ago, I wrote it up and threatened to put it on the blog, and Gary refused. (However, he didn't say I couldn't email my friends. Because I didn't ask. But still.) I asked again a few weeks ago and he has a completely different memory of the story. He wants you to know this tale is "complete fiction." Below is the tale I sent out via email.

Every word is true.

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

Anyway, last Saturday (in late September) Gary and I decided to take a road trip up into Canada to visit our favorite Wild Animal Park. I had been told the best way to convert currency in Canada was just to use the debit or credit card. On the way to the park - about 50 miles into Canada - We decided to try Tim Horton's coffee and maybe have a snack of poutine at this Fast Food Court.

We got in, ordered the coffee, and Gary handed this woman his Visa card.
"I'm sorry sir, we don't take Visa. Only Mastercard."

Of course, Gary's Bank of AMERICA card had changed from Mastercard to Visa about five years back.

So then we tromped across the street to an ATM at a McDonalds. I went to the bathroom while Gary used the ATM, and when I emerged I heard, "ELLEN WE MUST GO BACK TO THE US THEY DON'T TAKE VISA ANYWHERE IN CANADA."

"Who told you that?"

"I'VE TRIED THIS CARD IN TWO PLACES AND IT DOESN'T WORK." (More subdued) "It says I can't withdraw money at this ATM."

I looked on the ATM and it only had Mastercard symbols. And Maestro, which is Europe's MasterCard.

"Well, Gary, that just means this ATM doesn't, and the coffee place, not All Of Canada."

'NO IT'S ALL OF CANADA! WE MUST GO BACK."

"No, let's just find a bank and use my Visa card - "

"NO! WE MUST GO BACK TO AMERICA! HURRY!"

After driving / arguing 15 minutes back to the US my logic had begun to make some inroads.

First, I proved to him he was wrong at times. "Gary, that ATM said it used the Cirrus network. Is you card on the Cirrus network?"

"YES!" [long back and forth deleted] "FINE! IF YOU WANT ME TO PROVE IT TO YOU, HERE IT IS. MY CARD. YOU ARE SO STUPID. IT MUST BE ON THE BACK. FINE. IT ISN'T."

"So, mine is a Cirrus card …"

"It doesn't matter" (see how the yelling stops when he has been proven slightly wrong) "Your card is still a Visa, and they don't take Visa in Canada. I read about this! Don't you remember the Olympic commercials 4 years ago - "

"No, they take Visa, they don't take American Express -"

"NO! I know I read an article on this! Canada doesn't take Visa anymore."

"Maybe it's just your Visa. It is Bank of AMERICA, not Bank of NORTH AMERICA. Or maybe BoA folded, we haven't heard the news in a few hours."

"ARE YOU NOT LISTENING TO ME?! I KNOW CANADA DOESN'T TAKE VISA!" (I had squandered my window of reason. The yelling was back.)

"Gary, I am driving this car. I am driving it to a bank. I am using my Visa card."

I'm going to skip the constant unbroken stream of hollering that continued as I pulled into an ABM ("THIS ISN'T EVEN AN ATM!" "Automatic Banking machine?" "IT WILL EAT YOUR CARD! IT WILL NOT WORK! WE ARE WASTING TIME") and plugged in my card and waited a few heart-stopping moments, because he almost had me convinced that Canada was at war with Visa. And then it spat out 200 happy little colorful Canadian dollars and I threw them in his face.

The End.
Well, he said, "Oh" and then on demand, "I was wrong."

Cultural Revolution

Remember how I said I was paying a ridiculous amount of money (minus 50% off) to get the Booger Silkscreen restored and matted and framed under archival museum glass? And I went to the West County high-end framing store last Sunday?

Next day, that would be Monday, I get an email from high-end store. Grim news, the store was closing Friday! For forever, after fifteen years. Complete surprise to all the workers. So, I had to rescue the Booger Print before they closed Friday night. They had gotten the restoration part done:

(It might not seem like they did any restoration, but that's the look I wanted.)

So, they had the frame sides, but not the two mats or the glass.  I have little faith I'll see the refund for that, but there was a Going Out of Business Sale. I found a lovely Mucha print in simply the most gorgeous mat and frame ever. The mat had gilded braided edges. Plus, I love Alphonse Mucha, commercial hack though he sometimes was. I have five Mucha posters dating back from college. I know this is heresy, but this new one matched my living room.

"Name your price!" the saleslady from Sunday said.

"Forty dollars."

"Sounds good," she said, possibly influenced because I'd brought her a Barack HOPE print. (She did just lose her job.) Then I went back to class and smacked myself all afternoon for not starting lower. I went back right before it closed and cleaned out the place. I just tallied up the original prices , then divided it into what I paid, and I guessed right: it was a 90% off deal. If you base it on the half-price sale that is always on at the high-end store, it's only 80% off.

 

Feel free to embiggen. A few things are gifts, a few prints really appealed to me (the Wall Street one in the front is headed for my TeddyJ cube), but mostly I'm going to re-frame my smaller existing stuff. Existing art shown below.

 

As you see, I stripped the walls of everything I ever bought or did or inherited. (There's your three people on the front row, Judith; they are not going to be confined to a frame, but I wanted all the walls to be a blank slate.)

Now, three of mine are old-school daisy paintings from my Great-Aunt Rosemary, and when I questioned if they should go up somewhere, Gary shrieked, "You have to! It's your Great-Aunt Rosemary! Your mother would roll over in her grave! If she had a grave. As it is, there are little puffs of ash coming out of her box!"

By the way, let me tell you, I was high after the big 90 percent off sale. I was elated. Today, I feel like a robber baron profiting off the poor economy.

Crotch Congestion

[Feed Readers - if you can't see the jump and are faint of heart, look away. If you want to see me at my stupidest, continue.]

Eeeee! It's like a science experiment for caramel apples! Becs rules!

 

Do you see? I got a treat!

The apples are labeled with the type of apple that is under the candy. This is beyond perfection. Thank you. Test results later.

Wooohoo!

And here I thought there'd be a big struggle at the end. Hurrah!

Of course, now there's a mob outside the white house and police in riot gear. Shhh...don't tell the world community, we'll look bad.

All done

Oops

Inside!

Coffee woman said " Anderson said bring coffee and a chair."

Gary's back went out. Canes are hot.

Line at ten till

Save Yo' Drama for Obama

Seriously, can there be ANY MORE DRAMA in this election?

Obama's Grandma died the day before the election. It has now gone over the top. I mean, the first black nominee, and the second female VP nominee, and then the Hillary floor nomination with the "Love Train" accompaniment, and the pregnancy and the pregnancy plots about Palin having her daughter's baby. It can't get more soap-operatic unless I wake up tomorrow and hear that Obama and Palin are long-lost half siblings.

A little bit of me thinks they've been making all this up just to keep our attention.  Because this is like a bad movie.  It's like CNN wants ratings or something. Politics are supposed to be boring.

But then I realized that yes, yes it can get more dramatic. I saw Bill Hemmer on Fox saying how it would all be over in just a day. I realized no, Bill ("We're Going To Pluto") Hemmer, it could be contested in all our battleground states.

So here's my plan, I get out there and vote at 6 a.m. (no early voting here in Missouri) then I go home and sleep so that I can stay up all night. You know it will be an all-nighter. It has to be, it would be an anti-climax if there was a peaceful transfer of power.

(Oh, and rioting. I forgot the rioting.)

Framing

When I was young, I bought poster frames at K-Mart.

When I'd been married a while, I assembled mats and frames at the Frame Factory.

For lesser art, I now use framesbymail. For greater art, I use the hugely expensive West County Art & Frame store. It's the hard stuff. The others were just the gateway drugs.

(Hey - I wonder - It is Saint Louis, Gateway to the West, and everything is "Gateway" downtown. Is there a "Gateway Drug Store"  downtown? Aw, damn. Google says no.)

Okay, so one of the prizes I found at Mom's was the tattered newsprint silkscreen of me by my ex-boyfriend now esteemed artist and Pew Fellow Virgil Marti. And I found that if you carefully unfold the newsprint at the bottom it is signed, and titled "Ellen" and numbered 1/__ .  Essentially, I have the only surviving copy of a Virgil Marti print. I was surprised the print was 'titled' "Ellen" since if I recall we always called it "The Booger Print" since there was an unfortunate slip of the art glue on the print right under where my nose is represented.

At any rate, the framing consultation took an hour and the frame will cost an ungodly amount of money, even with the half-off coupon, even so much that other customers in the store asked our saleslady if that was indeed the correct number they heard.

I comfort myself that the same saleslady told us that the tri-color Obama hope poster would be worth some money someday. I was a little hesitant about framing it, because that's just a little too "Our Glorious Leader" for me, but I got it for free, it fits into a poster frame I already have up on the wall, and I went to the Obama tax cut calculator (http://taxcut.barackobama.com/) and I'll get enough back to pay for the Virgil Marti frame.

Luckily I kept the Obama poster even though it was banned at work this past Friday. I had to bring it home. Freedom of expression doesn't extend to the cubicle walls paid for by the TeddyJ company, and that's fair, I think. Does anyone know of something subversive yet clean I can put in its place?

Halloween by the Numbers

Number of bags of candy bought: 6

Number of dogs dressed in tuxedos: 1

Calories we consumed in mini-candy bars: 1200

Number of pedophiles on our street: 1

Temperature at 6:00 - 9:00 pm: 70 degrees Fahrenheit

Number of houses on our street with their lights on: 4

Number of times our doorbell rang: 1

Number of kids: 2

Average age of kids: 12

So, that's it for Halloween for us. We gave encouraging words today to a little girl in our neighborhood who was having her first bike ride without training wheels. After she giggled "Whheeeeee!" and we walked away, Gary grumbled, "Yeah, sure, where were you last night?"