Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

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.

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.

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.

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.

Man vs Wildlife

Gary vs A Piece of Fuzz
We have two bathrooms, which is a blessing at times, usually when we have Chinese delivery. One evening this week we were each in our respective bathrooms when I heard a shriek as if Gary was being skinned and given a salt rub.

"AIIIIIEEEEEE!"

Early in our marriage I would have bolted from my bathroom to his, grabbing the phone on the way so I could call 911.

A few years after that I would have yelled, "What? What? Are you okay?"

However, I have learned as many mothers do, that screaming is fine, silence is when you know it's bad. I paused, listened, and after the scream that suggested Gary was hemorrhaging his brain out his nose, I heard: (thump thump thump) "ACK!" (thump thump) "ACK! It's huge!"

"Ah," I reasoned. "Bug. He's trying to kill it."

A few minutes later when we reconnected, Gary said he walked in to the bathroom, took off his glasses, then kicked aside a piece of lint that was on the floor. The lint ran for cover and scurried up the side of the cabinet.

It reminded me of Mom, who woke up one day after I had been born, and without putting on her glasses kicked aside a fuzzy play toy that was sitting out. Luckily, she put on her glasses before she cleaned it up or I'd have found a dead field mouse in my toy box.

Larvae Attack
Since we last heard from the caterpillars, they have climbed to the top of their cup, and hung from the lid like the letter "J" for a week. I probably should have moved them sooner into their mesh butterfly habitat. As it was, I read that after they formed chrysalises, I should peel off the paper they were adhered to at the top of the cup, and pin it inside their mesh habitat house. They're on the right, below, five of them.

Well, when you move the chrysalises after they are big and strong, it is quite surprising when they go into their self-protective diversionary tactic.It seems a chrysalis can move, or "jiggle" as the instructions say, if it feels endangered.

This time, I got to be the one screaming. I only had to carry the chrysalises three feet and they convulsed. Not "jiggled," not "quivered." I know they didn't want to scare the kids when they wrote the instructions, but these chrysalises kicked like a donkey in a gunny sack. I'm sure my screaming made them even more frightened.

At any rate, I woke up today to three butterflies. I saw another one about a minute after it came out (its wings were still curled up.) I keep checking number five, the runt. Still not out.

Turkey
I don't know why, but when I see wildlife, I think cartoons. The friendly chipmunk who came by at chattered at me by the Royal Ontario Museum looked like Chip or Dale. I saw a fox and though. "That red dog looks like a cartoon fox. I wonder what breed that is?" That's why I was able to recognize the cartoon turkey on the way to Starbuck's yesterday.

Squirrats
You all  are trying to give me nightmares, with all the squirrel photos. Photos here, and here with TEATS for God's sake.

Review of The Breakup

A few months ago, I was out with my friends. or working late, or something, and Gary watched this movie, The Breakup, with Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn. I asked, "How was it?" fully expecting to give the standard Gary movie re-enactment, which takes 30 minutes longer than the movie itself, what with the analysis and the hopping.

"Oh, it was awful. The guy was just like me, AND his name was Gary."

Now, I know Jennifer Aniston was naked in this movie; that's why Gary wanted to see it. If this self-recognition overshadowed "Rachel's" naked ass, it must be right on. That's why I rescued the movie from the Tivo Suggestions the next time it came up.

Let me tell you, it was like marriage counseling. Jennifer Aniston would scream "You don't appreciate me!" and Gary would coo, "Ellen, I want you to know I appreciate you." Really odd. Don't know what to make of it. Only, I kept rooting for Vince Vaughn instead of Jennifer Aniston. "I want you to WANT to wash the dishes!" I don;t even want to wash the dishes. You threw the party, girl, you clean it up.

P.S. - Just because it merits mentioning, I had a new category of dream last night: The Squirrel Dream. Squirrels were in every room of my house, watching me dress, watching me shower, watching me all the time. I hate squirrels.

Lush and the Loss Leaders

Gary was at the Big Lush Store at the Galleria tonight, buying some more Mother's Day / Birthday presents for his Mom. Her birthday was in mid-April, and has been postponed for so many reasons that it's now merging with Mother's Day.

(On the topic of Mother's Day, I was just on the phone with Dave tonight, and he agreed with me there are many mothers out there who suck and do not deserve to be alive. Mother's Day is pissing us both off.)

At any rate, Gary is having a no-holds-barred volcanic gift eruption, including  now three visits  to Lush. Gary selected the few Lush products that have been beneath his radar. He sniffed for an hour or so while I chatted with the sales crew. I have it on their authority that there are some people in Saint Louis who eat the Lush products. One grown woman and one five-year-old boy. The boy likes the sandstone soap. I don't know what soap or scrub the grown woman eats.

At any rate, we then went to dinner at the mall and I had the chopped salad, again -  I think I can imagine a Mom chopping up the vegetables so they are all tiny and diced. It's really so comforting.

At dinner he started totaling up all the stuff he bought his Mom, and suddenly looked up from the Lush receipt and asked, "What's Gorgeous?"

(If you use Lush, you can stop reading. I think you know where this is going.)

"I don't know," I chewed, "You did all the shopping."

"Well, there must be a mistake. I didn't buy anything for $87.50."

Hack! "One thing? For 87.50? No, one of those giant gift boxes must have been on the counter and they assumed it was ours."

We walked back to the Lush store. I went up to the friendly sales guy (the one who told me about the Sandstone-eating Pica Boy) and demanded pleasantly, "What is Gorgeous, and why does it cost ninety bucks?"

He reached into our bag and pulled out the teeny tiny tub of Gorgeous. Here it is on the web site, tucked in between all the $25 things. It was tucked in next to the $25 things at the store too, and for all of you who are screaming at a $25 tublet of moisturizer, much less $80 plus, know that Gary doesn't look at prices when it comes to gifts.

I unscrewed the lid because I wanted to discover what $87.50 smelled like. Smells like cold cream. I checked the ingredients, I didn't see "squid placenta" or anything exotic in there.

So, Gary has actually hit a limit on what he will buy for his Mom. He won't spend $87.50 for 1.5 ounces of moisturizer.  He returned it.  When I got home I read some reviews on the Lush site. The one with the 32 year old who credited it for keeping her unwrinkled was pretty funny. I started picturing Lush TV Ads with ten year olds cooing, "This moisturizer keeps me wrinkle-free!"

 

In Which I Digress

There was something I didn't tell you about.

Digression! Actually, this time it doesn't involve porn dreams with Mom, which, since you ask, I continue to have, based on the XXX-rated movie I saw in my dream last night. It was charged to Mom's hotel room when we were visiting some crack slum in Chicago. Instead ...

It involves the visit to West County Mall on Good Friday.

Digression! Oh, and if your in-laws  are Charismatic Catholic, the answer to "What did you have for dinner Friday?" is not "Sausage Pizza." That answer would be Wrong. Especially if Friday was the Good one. That response might have even been followed by your Mother-in-law saying, "What do you mean Baptists eat meat on Fridays? I thought all Christians couldn't eat meat on Friday." At any rate ...

West County Mall is not Gary's mall of choice. Gary prefers Mid-Rivers Mall. If you are not a St. Louisan, West County Mall is where the lower-privileged-class shops. (*Sings: "West County Mall ... where the lower-privileged-class shops ... laaaa ..." *breathy* "Under the Doooove ..." ) Mid-Rivers Mall is where my class shops. That would be the middle class. Well, upper-middle.

The difference is that I can go to West County Mall and not be intimidated. West County Mall scares Gary. Just a little. The standard for Mall Fear is Gary's reaction to Plaza Frontenac (*Sings: "Plaza Frontenac ... where the Upper-privileged-class shops .... laaaa.") A few minutes in Plaza F. and Gary's self-esteem starts scratching its imaginary lice. He gets a little less twitchy in West County Mall. As I said, Gary feels most at home in Mid-Rivers Mall.

Digression! Oh, and if you yourself have to go to an intimidating mall like Plaza F. because it's the only place with a Sur La Table, here's what you do: wear a hat. It works the best in winter. You stalk in wearing a cloth coat and a winter hat and fix a saleslady in your sights and she'll sail right over. Anyway ...

West County Mall won because it has a Lush store secreted away in the Macy's, as well as the Lindt store, and the clincher, the California Pizza Kitchen.

Digression! Does your California Pizza Kitchen have name tags for the staff that says where they are from? Ours used to (or at least the one in the Galleria did. (*Sings: "The Galleria ... where the upper-middle-class shops and then are sometimes assaulted by the roving hordes of teenagers ...  laaaa ...")) Last night it seemed the California Pizza Kitchen name tags were gone, or perhaps I just didn't notice them. Or perhaps, the CPK staff has picked up on the paranoia St. Louisans have about Out-Of-Towners (aka, Those Who Did Not Attend High-School Here).)

Digression! Digression! I had the chopped salad, probably the third chopped salad I've had this month. I don't know what's so comforting about having all my vegetables and protein chopped exactly the size of the corn, the smallest part of the chopped salad. Since it's all the same size, it's all a surprise.

So, anyway, that's the whole truth. I credit the Lush/Macy's store with seducing Gary into West County Mall. I suppose they have subliminal muzak in that mall, things that say "Spending is better than mending" and "Soap is cheap! Buy all you want!" and "No one still follows that rule about meat on Good Friday..."

Bunnies

Gary: So, what did we buy at the mall tonight?
Me: Well, all that Lush stuff (TWO TRIPS TO LUSH IN ONE NIGHT) and the bunnies.
Gary: Bunnies?
Me: Uh, the chocolate Easter bunnies?
Gary: Oh! Yeah! The Lent bunnies.
Me: Easter bunnies.
Gary: Yeah. That's what I said.
Me: You said Lent bunnies.
Gary: Yeah. For Easter.
Me: I thought Easter was the end of Lent. That's why you indulge in chocolate.
Gary: Yes. What is wrong with you?
Me: Well, now you're calling them Lent bunnies.
Gary: Yes. The bunnies we just bought? For Easter? The Lent ones?
Me: Is this a Catholic thing? You're only allowed to call them Easter bunnies after Easter? But till then they're Lent bunnies?

(Now, I think this makes total sense, especially since it's the Catholics that who take Jesus off the cross in the sanctuary after Easter, but then pop him back up there just in time for your wedding in June, and he does not look like he's having fun in the wedding photos. Plus, Catholics let the baby Jesus join the others in the manger at Christmas, just as the in-laws dress up the decorative geese in seasonal costumes.)

But, actually, I imagine this conversation takes place often after people leave West Country mall. Where the Lindt chocolate store is.

Hempy Birthday, Dear Gary

Years ago, I tried to soothe my tattered cuticles with the heavy-duty hand lotion at left.

(SO many years ago that the packaging was just the word HEMP in big bold letters. No affected French, no ironic leaf.)

I tried it on in the bathroom at the mall. My fingertips plumped right up. It was like rubbing lard on my hands. I went back and bought six tubes that same day.

Then, I brought it home.  Gary caught a whiff of it, and screamed like a seagull being frappéd in a blender.

"Aaaaaeeeieii! I can't breathe! What is that?  It's making my eyes water! My throat is closing up! Oh my GOD! I'm going into anaphylactic shock!"

Now, Gary's been to concerts. I know he doesn't react that way to a dried, processed hemp smell. Still, after the incident when I tried to sneak some of it on while I was at Mom's, and he stormed out of the house, I just took it to work.

All this to say: it is Gary's birthday. Be warned, readers (particularly Lush readers), if you receive a gift, do not turn the bottle around and read the ingredients out loud.

"Ooooo!" Gary cooed, "You got me Sonic Death Monkey Body Wash! Mmmm ... it smells good. It's got coffee ... and lime ... and -" (HEMP SCREAM) "Hemp Oil!"

I can't wait till shower time tomorrow morning, when the steam interacts with the hemp oil and suffocates him.

Sick bunny

Zayrina sent this in a comment but it is well deserving of its own post. (Gary JUST insisted I go to the store to buy him soda. Then he admitted he felt fine.)

Saturday

Saturday, Gary and I went shopping for his sister Sandy's birthday gift. Gifts. Forty gifts. I am not exaggerating. It took the entire day. He buys MY birthday present the night before in about two hours. No ... I'm not jealous.

His sister asked for:
"Soup bowls
Photoshop
Homeopathic stuff"

Well, our first (and worst) stop was Bed Bath and Beyond, where we had what Gary now calls The Battle of the Bowls.

Gary goes into some infinite time loop in BB&B. It was last weekend all over again. I blame BB&B. It isn't attached to a mall, so when Gary can't find what he wants, he just keeps circling that department. He thinks, "Those bowls aren't in a box. There are some flowery bowls, but she likes ethnic patterns. Those bowls are too plain. No more bowls. I guess that's it. Let me look at those bowls. Yeah. No box. She won't like the flowery bowls. Those won't do. But the plain bowls are too plain. Let me look at the first bowls again ..." until I begin to say things like, "Are you waiting for them to restock the shelves? To order more bowls? Do you think new bowls will rise up from the shelves? There are three types of bowls. If they don't suit you, there are OTHER bowls at the MALL."

So that didn't end well. It ended with finger shaking and no bowls. I had realized the issue was that we weren't in a mall, so when we went to the similarly detached Best Buy I just stayed away from him. Suddenly he presented me with four new CDs and a laptop bag. Then all was well between us, because I am a CD whore. (And if you can get your hands on the song "Business Time" from the Flight of the Conchords CD, you should.)

Finally to the mall, to the Lush store, because Gary decided Aromatherapy = "Homeopathic stuff." The two saleswomen watched Gary shovel Lush products into the basket and looked at me with envy. When they found the products weren't for me, their eyes lit up.

"Don't you like to take baths?" they asked.
"No. I take showers. And before you ask, I don't use shower gels or anything like that."
"What scents do you like?"
"I guess citrus, but I don't really believe in arom - WANT!"

Because she had showed a hunk of Sexy Peel soap in my face, and my nose screamed "WANT! EAT IT! NO! PUT IT UP NOSE! NO! COAT SKIN WITH IT!"

My reaction so impressed Gary that he got his sister some Sexy Peel soap too, which I stole this morning. He caught me, but I can steal it again. He doesn't remember what size that bar of soap was.

Eventually we got bowls at J.C. Pennys, and I used my soap tonight. Eat me! Shove me up your nose.

In Which Gary Channels President Garfield

Yesterday I asked Gary what he wanted for his birthday. He wanted an AsSeenonTV Cordless Swivel Sweeper. Ah, I thought, because you spend so much time cleaning the floor. But it's his Birthday Month, and after a few comments regarding how it would be cool if they made a cordless sweeper that was round and robotic and was sitting in our laundry room this very minute, I figured it was only $35 and not worth the argument.

"We" spent an two and a half hours looking at the cordless sweepers at Bed Bath and Beyond. The five cordless sweepers. FIVE. That's 30 minutes per sweeper. I started suggesting that perhaps we need to go home and do some more research. Maybe see what Consumer Reports had to say. Or, buy them all and do our own CR-style road test. Or, just buy one for chrissake!

This displeased Gary.

"Gary, come on. I'm patient, but it's been two and a half hours that I've been standing watching you read boxes."
"Well, if you're so bored, go look at something else," he pouted.
Hallelujah! "Oh, thank you," I sighed, and moved in for a kiss.
He moved away. (Really? Oh, no, you did not just dodge my kiss like a sixth-grader.) I moved in again.
He moved away.
So, of course, I chased him around the vacuum area at Bed Bath and Beyond. He  ran from me in fear, but since he didn't have the motivation I did I soon caught up with him and pushed him against the mops.

"Help! Masher!"  he cried.

He really said, "Masher," as if he were Shirley Jones in The Music Man. He's such a girl.

In Which Gary Changes His Underwear

Gary came into the room Thursday, while I was on the phone, hooked his thumbs into a worn-out hole in his pants, and silently tore his pants off his body.

He's done this before. Usually I applaud and gush, but as I say, I was on the phone.

This may explain why Friday he upped the ante. He walked in and began stripping to his own interpretation of '70s porn music, revealing ...

These!

"Okay," I asked, "Why are you wearing Mormon underwear?"

The story begins when Gary was walking up a slushy hill to get to work, and slid face-first back down. His coat, shirt, pants, and underwear were drenched in mud, so he drove to the nearest mall to buy new clothes. (It's okay. He needed to replace the pants he tore up Thursday anyway.) When he got back to work and changed, he found not only that the three-pack of undies he bought were not all white (one red and one black were hidden in there), but that they were these girdle-shaped underwear. Evidently they are Jockey Boxer/Briefs. For the man who no longer takes gym class.

They look good on him. But, you can't get the true effect without the porn music and the bumping and grinding.

I really like Gary's new underwear.

I'm Loving Teddy J

My new employer, TeddyJ, has bought me lunch the last three days. And it was good, and there was cake.

On the other hand, my husband Gary is starving me. There is no food in the house.

Remember this photo?

 

Clear all the fluids off the top and bottom shelves. That's what's in our fridge right now. Condiments and bread.

Now, take sheets of ice and rain them down from the sky. There was a sleet downpour in Saint Louis today. TeddyJ said, "Hey, go home, and if it's bad stay home tomorrow too."

Great. Gary buys the groceries, but Gary is on the starvation diet, so he has no motivation to visit the grocery. We can't get Chinese or pizza deliveries in bad weather, because Gary feels it's wrong to risk the driver's lives because we're hungry. He's so sweet. I could gnaw his arm off.

In Which We Discover Gary Is "Connected"

Since I've been living at the Queen Mom's the last few days, Gary has been at home pining for attention. So of course, who gives the best attention? HIS Mom. He went to visit his Mom in the Suburb From Whence All Moms Come (Florissant), then he dropped by to visit us at my Mom's house, just to get a few more scraps of attention.

"So," I asked, "How's your sister Sandy and the kids?"
"We didn't talk about that."
"Oh. Well then, what's up with Karen and Mr. Wonderful?"
"I dunno. We didn't talk about them either."
"What did you talk about, then?"
"Oh, stuff. I didn't know my Aunt Pat had lost the Cook family geneology. I don't know why they'd want it though. Mom says her uncle was in the Mafia."
I laughed. Because this is absurd. "The Mafia? You aren't Sicilian. You're Irish." Wilma's family is Irish. Beyond Irish. Gary's grandma was 100% Irish and marched every year in the Hibernian parade.
He rolled his eyes. "The Irish Mafia. In East Saint Louis, where I was born."
"There's an Irish Mafia?" I asked, incredulously. (Don't worry, I went to Wikipedia, and I'm caught up now on the Irish Mob. It's just that I never saw The Departed, or Gangs of New York. Oh, and yes, Gary was born in East Saint Louis, where the crime rate is ten times the national average. I suppose he's a homey of East St. Louis. I don't think this would carry any weight when he was begging for his life, though.)
"Well, of course there's an Irish Mafia. Mom said she'd always have to leave the room when her uncle came over and talked 'business' with her dad."

Now, I knew that Gary's grandfather was a mean man, abusive to his family, and a drunk. But I had never heard of this uncle, or the 'family business.'

"So." I huffed, "I don't know if I would have married you if I had known your family were Mafiosa."
"Oh come on," he said. "Everyone was in the Mafia back them."
"No," I said sweetly. "Some of us," (I exchanged glances with Mom) "owned coal companies."
"And were the founding families of Marion, Ohio," Mom added.
"And married future First Ladies of the United States," I hedged, skipping the common-law part of the DeWolfe / Kling / Harding union.

Of course, I recalled later that at the time Gary's great-uncle was strong-arming shopkeepers in East Saint Louis, my great-grandfather was running liquor across state lines. Except HE paid his debt to society and spent ten years in prison. And he was an Independent Contractor Criminal, not associated with the Mob.

The Mob.
The Irish Mob.
The Irish Mob of East Saint Louis.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. No wonder Wilma didn't spill this until she was eighty.

The New Diet, Continued

Gary reports that he thinks we can consume cosumme on our soon-to-be vegetarian diet. Chicken broth is okay in his book. I think he believes it's chicken sweat.

He also thinks Oreos are okay.
"Well, no," I said, "The center is made of lard and sugar."
"Lard is animal fat, isn't it? Dang."
"Yes."
"Well, maybe they got it by liposuction."

Marital advice

Wives, if you ever want your husbands to talk incessantly, all you have to do is put on your slinky pjs and robe, lie in bed next to him and say "Let's just lie here and cuddle." He will twitch and vibrate and talk and throw off sparks of energy.

Then the dog will jump up and chew on  his bone until he looks directly at your husband and kicks the bone off the bed. Then your husband will hop up and get the bone. Repeat the kick / fetch process thirty minutes.

Get up and go into the other bed and fall asleep until the opening bars of Stan Kenton's West Side Story jerks you awake. Oh, and then your husband will play the Dean Martin CD he just bought for his Dad's birthday and come in with the dog and dance with the dog to "That's Amore."

But, no. No, it isn't.

How Many Calories in a Placebo?

So far the "placebo" has made me gain six pounds in two weeks. (Which makes sense. Sugar pill.) The real fear I have is that I will reach that horrible state in which I weigh more than my husband. I am beyond Spanx. I am enormous. And it doesn't really bother me, as long as I weigh less than Gary. Soon, though, he threatens to go on another Gary Diet of Fascism.

This diet was inspired by my introduction of Quisp to this house. I love Quisp. He ate some Quisp in a bowl and within hours was my Great-Aunt Carol who was 400 pounds because she snorfed down the Big Box of Cheerios as a snack in one sitting. Or vice versa.

Later that night, he said his neck hurt and blamed the Quisp. I didn't even question him. (Sometimes, just ... why?) The next day I emailed him and asked about his neck. His response:

"It is fine.  Too many carbs.  I am not used to so many carbs.  I have fallen off the carb wagon and I can't get up.  Did you know that there are 150 cals in one Lemon Girl Scout cookie and 40 cals in one Thin Mint cookie.  Did you know that there are 400 cals in one cup of white flour.  ONE CUP.   

I am switching over to an all paper-thin deli turkey/chicken and lettuce diet.  You can bring whatever food into the house that you want because I am off carbs.  As soon as I finish off the Thin Bread, I am off of bread.  In fact, I am off bread as of right now.  You can have the Thin Bread. I have been gaining weight because I have underestimated the number of calories in flour.  I have been eating a little bread, a couple of pretzels, a few noodles and small amount of gravy and dumplings.  Thinking that this diet had to be better then a diet of candy bars.  White flour has twice the number of calories in it then does white sugar.  I would have done better eating nothing but M&Ms.  Arghhhhh."

So, if the experimental drug adds three pounds a week, and if he loses three pounds a week, our weights will meet in one month. How many steaks per week do I have to bring into the house to delay the inevitable one year?

The Science of Soap

"Hey Gary, what's this white scummy film on the floor?"

"Oh, that's the Mop & Glo."

"So...didn't you rinse it?"

"Evidently not very well."

"Okay. It's not enough for the Scooba, I'll just run the mop over it."

"No! Don't do that. It's soap, it's not hurting anything."

"Well, it's attracting dirt to the floor. That's what soap does. That's why you rinse off soap. Instead of attracting dirt and rinsing away, it's attracting dirt and staying on the floor."

"Oh, you are so wrong! Soap repels dirt."

"No."

"No, that's how soap works. Everyone knows that."

So, yesterday I thanked you for inspiring my husband to be more adventurous. Now I think he's just saying stupid crap to see his name on the blog. He's like that Prince Von Anhalt guy.

Gary Lives for You All!

I'm going once again on the Barenaked Ladies cruise in a few weeks, and incidental to this cruise are the ports of call. In the ports are many activities, so Gary and I are required to make a joint decision. After Gary called six times at work to jerk us back and forth on what we wanted to do, he sent this email:

"I changed my mind.  Sign us up for the Canopy Adventure in Jamaica and the Snuba (and Butterflies/Horses?) in Grand Cayman.  If we don't feel up to it when we get there we can just eat the fees.  If we do feel up to it then we could have an amazing adventure or at least an extremely embarrassing episode that will be blog-worthy.  We have to remember that we are no longer private citizens.  We are now characters in an Internet blog.  We must live our life while keeping that in mind.  If I get stuck up in a tree, I want the whole world to at least know that I tried something new.  If the Canopy is closed then we need something else like Nude Paragliding that is equally blog-worthy."

I thank you, oh Denizens of the Internets, for making my husband Mr. Adventure.

Senior Citizen Skip Day

The title? Technically, there's no post for 12/02/07. So that blows NaBloPoYear. Damnit.

But, still I had to tell you about  the Incident Over the Basement Stairs.

I am a great believer in gravity. This is why everything that needs to go into the basement is tossed over the ledge at one end of the basement stairs. (The basement stairs aren't the type that are behind a door, they just take up the wall on one side of the dining area. You can stand at the top of the stairs at put things in the basket that is designed for the top step, or you can accept that the things in that basket never get downstairs and instead, stand across from the landing at the top of the stairs, by the half-wall that keeps you from plunging to your death when you walk across the great room, and just toss the stuff over the ledge.)

I once thought this was lazy.  Then I paid a surprise visit to Friend #5, the Uptight Friend, and discovered that you could indeed plunge to the bottom of her steps and land in a soft pile of clothing and then be suffocated.  If we didn't have an upstairs laundry room my stairs would have looked like that in weeks, but instead, we only toss things that need to be stored.

I say "we." Gary hates it. I hate the basement. I love the gravity. Gary goes into the basement every day to play the drums, and he yells upward about the stuff at the bottom of the stairs, and I yell downward well why doesn't he put it away then, and this works for me.

Well, Saturday, Gary was being particularly fractious, and it didn't sit well since I was organizing the linen closet. Many linens were lost in the brutal purge. Some linens went to live in the basement. As I was headed to the basement drop-off ledge, he followed me, carping "BLAH BLAH! NEVER! AND YOU ALWAYS BLAH AND DON'T EVEN THINK OF TOSSING THAT OVER THE SIDE!"

I turned, fixed him in my steady gaze, held out my hand which was balancing the linens like a waiter's tray, and flipped my wrist. Linens belly-flopped to the bottom of the steps.

He looked at me. Suddenly his hand shot out and he slapped a bit of Tupperware off the ledge.

I,  laughing, defiantly took a bag of candy off the table and threw it over.

He tossed The Kite Runner. Then he didn't wait for me to respond, because I was laughing too hard and because he had spotted the stuffed reindeer. He held it by its horns over the precipice. "Not the reindeer!" I screamed and grabbed it. Then I spiked it into the basement.

This is why I don't remember what the fight was about. Surprisingly he brought many of the things up later. But the linens are still sitting down there.

Meet Sarah

Hi. I'm Sarah.

I've been watching your husband naked in the shower.

I inspected the bottle of Lush Rehab shampoo you bought when some blogger (probably Jammies) convinced you to spend an absurd amount of money on hair care, then I put this sticker on it.

I have been fixing your husband with  my playful gaze for some time. He has fallen under my spell. The other day when you bought the Philosophy skin care line because Sugared Harpy and Amalah recommended it (you sheep)  Gary said "I think I'll get some shampoo too." He got some Sephora Margarita shampoo/body wash/gel stuff for $17. You didn't care because you use the Be Curly shampoo because Dana from Mamalogues® recommended it. Baaaaaa.

When Gary brought that into my shower and put it next to my empty bottle, I almost spoke to him. Instead, I just looked at him with a slightly more accusing "I know what you did, you naughty boy" gaze.

That is why he told you that things weren't working out with the $17 shampoo, and he wanted more of ME. Me me me! And then you went out and bought a Forty Dollar Bottle of Shampoo (Lush Rehab! Try it! It's Great!) because your husband is under my command.

Next I'm telling him to kill you. Just so you know.

Cowboy Mouth: The Preface

I went Friday night with Friends #2 and #3 to the Cowboy Mouth concert.

Friend #2 gets special credit for introducing me to CM's music. She was a bartender in New Orleans and worked at a bar the band played in. And evidently "in" is the operative word: the drummer/frontman crawled through the rafters at the venue, dropped down behind the bar, and said something so profane to the owner Sam that I can't even quote it here. Perhaps Friend #2/Hot Mom will leave it in the comments.

Friend #3 gets special credit for understanding when I was delayed at the car dealer, and driving 20 minutes from her house right by me to Friend #2's place out west so I could pick them both up there. Then she gets Extra Special Bonus credit for understanding when Gary called because when I left him at the dealer I didn't check to see he had a way to get in. So, he was locked out. He said this loudly enough on the cell that #3 heard it while we waited in the car for #2 to orient the sitter.

"Haahahahaa!" #3 laughed cruelly, "He's locked out?"
"It isn't funny," I advised.
She called #2 who was getting the sitter settled in the apartment. "Gary locked himself out!"
"Haahahahaa!" #2 laughed cruelly.

What was really funny was after #3 left to rescue Gary, he called to say he was "brilliant" because he had put the clicker in his pocket, unbeknownst to himself, and WHAT DO YOU MEAN MARCIA'S COMING WITH THE CLICKER I JUST CALLED YOU ABOUT THAT FIVE MINUTES AGO!

More thanks to #2 for instantly calling #3 before the yelling was even over to say, "Go home and wait for us." She didn't add what I was thinking, which was "Perhaps the Heartless Cows will show some sympathy to me now that they've been jerked around by the Gary Panic Machine." 

But no. Friend #2 advised, "Next time say, 'Oh, you're locked out? So, what are you going to do about that?'"

Friend #3 recommended similar heartless behavior. I suppose he could have driven to the Pageant to get the clicker. Never occurred to me.

Next: Cowboy Mouth Concert review. Later: What I Like About Gary. That'll take some time.

Zayrina asks: "Who Drives Whom the Craziest?"

Whew, I get to skip Sue's question about what I look like. I was going to answer honestly and everything! With photos that aren't 25 years old.  But then Sara said everything perfectly here.  So, I'll answer Zayrina right now, and discuss who drives whom the craziest.

I asked Gary. "Gary, do I drive you crazy? In any way?"

He pondered, then, "Nope. You're okay. You don't ask me to do anything.  Even if I'm on vacation."

Then a few minutes later he paused the TiVo to blurt "You work on your PC while we're watching A MOVIE and MAKE me roll it back LIKE MILLION TIMES to see things you missed but then YOU MISS IT AGAIN when I'm ROLLING IT BACK FOR YOU!" 

So, that's his complaint. In my defense, I present to you the latest in the car saga, a little tale I like to call The Psycho  Motor Fit. As posted recently, Saturday we decided on the Orange Fit. (Or, as Friend #3 calls it: the Grand Mal-nier.)

Tuesday at 11 pm Gary cried suddenly, "I can't believe you are forcing me to buy an orange car! I hate orange!"

I finally choked out, "What. Did. You. Just. Say?"

"We were test-driving the car and we were going to get the red one, then you saw those orange cars on the other parking lot and got all excited about the orange one!"

When I caught my breath I explained that in Reality, I was calmly driving along, HE saw the orange cars, I said, "I can't see what color it is from inside the car, so I don't care." That was in Reality. In Gary's mind there was a more exciting conversation and much louder imaginary conversation, so he listened to that.

By midnight, after a long dog walk and some time apart he decided he'd call Honda to tell them let us look at the orange car before they started to customize it for us. I was very clear. I summarized the conversation. I threatened to email him so there would be a paper trail. It was clear. We had an agreement. He'd call Honda so we could approve the orange. 

He called. To tell them forget the orange, "we" wanted them to find us a red one. When he told me this at lunch I began taking notes of everything I said. I considered getting one of those court stenographer machines.

"Let's be clear," I said, "The dealer now has one of those elusive red ones. We can see it next to the orange one tonight."

"Yes. Well. Well, he may not have the red one."

"You just said he has the red one. You said it. Didn't the sales guy tell you that very thing?"

"Yes"

"So where do you get this idea that he might not have the red one?"

"I made it up."

Thud, his chest said with I punched it with my fist.

He's now claiming that my subconscious told him I don't like orange. I allegedly said in my sleep, "I Hate RRrnnngggg" Of course, I make him rewind the TiVo more than once. Obviously I need to try harder to infuriate him.

Rat-A-Tat asks: "Who Makes More Money, You or Gary?"

Oh, easy. Gary. He's makes 30% more than I do.

Such was not always the case. When we divided our money into separate accounts we were making almost the exact same amount. I'd get a raise and gloat that I made more, then he'd get a raise and rub my nose in it. But soon he switched companies a few times and got the big job-hopping bumps. Since then he's embraced responsibility, while I've dumped pitchers of ice water in responsibility's lap. Of course, after the incomes shifted  the division of the bills went to  66/33. 

Now, for a while at the beginning of our marriage you'd never have known we made the same amount. I am ashamed to say there was a time I would say things like, "We'll buy a new mattress when we scrape up enough money." I remember that exact quote because a friend snorted, "What do you mean, 'scrape up enough money?' Give me a break!"

I quoted the exchange to Mom, who nodded wisely and said, "'Poor mouth'. Your father Jerry did the same thing. He and his parents could have all the money in the world and still talk about how broke they were."

Since then I've tried to adopt Mom's attitude, which is "If you have money for minimal food, shelter and clothing, the rest is wealth. If the rest goes to paying for the bills for stuff you have, then you're still wealthy, you're just wealthy in things instead of cash."

Gary has no problems with Rich Mouth or Poor Mouth. He has Dumb Mouth. No idea how much is in his account at any time. I just asked him. He checked the balance online. He was off by 200%.  Yep, he just  asked me to float him some cash. Thanks, Rat-a-Tat.

The Penultimate Car Post

Gary came by work to take me to lunch Friday. He was chatting with Friend #3. It went something along the lines of "Oooo...Prius blah blah!" "YES! Prius blah! Yes!" "And I heard Prius blah GREAT blah blah!" "Blah! Exactly!Fabulous blah Prius!"

So today we went and bought a Fit. Because that's how he is. I went along with him, because anyone with epilepsy should own a Honda Fit, and as soon as they make a Toyota Lesion I'll buy one for myself.

It's so frustrating to be involved with the Divergent Decision Making Process. Finally after I screamed in the car the third time "WHY DO YOU ASK MY OPINION JUST TO SHOOT IT DOWN?" he explained he was looking for things to shoot down. Why not say all the things I didn't like about the Fit, also known as the Latest Wild Hair up his ass? So, after my feeble protestations ("IT'S UGLY! IT'S CHEAP! THEY CALL IT A FIT!") he decided he could live with all those things. ("So what if it's cheap?," he said, "The Mini's a BMW car. I've had a BMW, now I'll have a Fit.") 

Fine, I said, but we have to get a red one. That's a deal-breaker.

So, of course, we're getting an orange Fit. A Fit L'Orange. The Grand Mal. The Squashmobile. With a license plate that reads:

The car won't be ready till Friday, then the car quandary is over. Luckily most of our major decisions have now been made, so I don't need to work with Gary's ass-backwards decision-making any more.

I say most of our major decisions have been made. On a related note, I was reading through the Consent Form for the clinical trial, and it says I need to use two forms of birth control. I was considering my other options, and I thought, "Woman, you're forty-five. Just tie your tubes already." I told Gary.

"Or," he offered, "I could get a vasectomy."

So of course this means we'll be adopting a baby from China.

The Prophecies of Doom

Assorted quatrains from the prophet Garydamus:

And lo, the wife shall build
A great and mighty shelving unit
And it shall not stand
Or  stand it shall until the heavy bottles be placed upon it
And she shall  not be placated after the collapse.

**************************

Beware of the water sprinkler
Such as it is, buried into the earth
If the wife does not call and have the minions of the sprinkler cease the flow
There shall be freezing of the water
And bursting of the sprinkler system
And the contamination of the earth under the ground
And the ruination of the grass until the end of days
And the elevation of the water bill
And the Great Flood of the basement
And the destruction of all the stuff
Even unto the wedding dress
And the wife she will not be placated after such destruction
And hot tears shall fall.

************************************

At the end of the days
In the Year Of Our Lord 2020
When the Great One shall cease his labors
There shall be poverty
And the eating of cat food
And the wife will not be consoled.

************************************

I am writing down the words of the Prophet, because I am tired of hearing, "No, I never said [assorted disasters] will happen. Ever! All I ever said were completely positive and encouraging words of support!" Yeah. I bet Mrs. Nostradamus felt the same.

This is Distressing

Finally, finally my beloved Scooba is resurrected. It is Risen! And the angels sing.

(An aside: Scooba The First died when I was still waxing the nethers, so it was a while ago. Scooba the Second died the same way. (Wait - that suggested I was Scooba-ing the nethers. Its just last year was divided ito the pre-Brazillian epoch and the Modern Era.) That's when I Googled and found that the older Scoobas need a firmware update so they don't make their batteries self-destruct. This aside is for those who got here by Googling "My Scooba won't run."  Call iRobot and get the OSMO update device.)

But Scooba is back, Right now the Risen Scooba is licking dog urine off the floor. I've done all I can with the wet mop. but Gary just can't shake the feeling that no matter how much you mop the floor, you just dilute the dog urine. Granted, it may be one part pee to five thousand parts water, but it's still there unless Scooba sucks it up.

During the weeks I waited for the OSMO device Gary tried to put on a brave face. "I like the way the floor looks with the pee film on it."

"Stop it. I'm trying to get this thingee from the Scooba people."

"No, it's like the floor has a golden glow. Like it's been distressed."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Hey! We could have the dog eat oranges, then his pee would be orange-scented! Like Orange Glo, but with ammonia!"

So. Puppy Glo. Look for it in stores near you.

(And if you are grossed out that we've been walking on pee-filmy floors for two weeks, know that I could buy these Kinoki Foot Pads and they will leech out the toxins in my body through the soles of my feet.)

The Great Car Hunt

So, the car quest continues. This weekend we test drove a Toyota Yaris and a Toyota Prius. The Prius was like a spaceship, and it was eco-friendly and it was  disturbingly roomy for Mini owners. So, here's the breakdown:

Prius                    Yaris

Seats 5                10K less than the Prius
49mpg                10K less than the Prius
ecological         10K less than the Prius

The Yaris also has the name going for it. Gary can't remember the name.

"Ellen, do you think the Ya...Ya...Ya-Ya car - what's the name again?"

(I scheme momentarily.) "Yu-rus."

"No! It was Ya something!"

"Ya-rin."

"No!"

"Oh! Yu-rin."

"Yeah!"

So what turned Gary off the Toyota Urine today was the discovery that it doesn't have a tachometer. Well, it does if you get the S model, which has the same engine etc, except for an extra 1500 you get a tachometer. This injustice has him so outraged that Toyota is almost dead to him now and he's talking about the soul-less Honda Seizure again.

Gary and His Decision-Making Process

Here is Gary pondering breakfast out:
"What should I get...hmm...eggs? No, I feel like waffles. No! Oatmeal! Oatmeal sounds great."
Then the waitress arrives.
"The Light Egg white omelet with sausage and a side of bacon. And a bowl of cheese. And a side of salt pork."

It's divergent decision-making in action. I mention this because Gary is shopping for a new car. He has narrowed it down to:

A Prius
A Nissan Z
A Hummer
A Honda Si

(And he's still considering the Honda Grand Mal, but they are hard to find.)

So we trolled the car lots tonight. There were no Hummers to test drive. I think he was just saying that to test the level of dickishness I will tolerate. I said nothing, so he sat in a red Mazda Miata. He crawled in and took the Boulevard of Broken Ribs off to East Cliche, on a direct route to his Midlife Crisis.  Thankfully, he got out and realized Miatas are red because then the blood doesn't show.

But then, we realized that since we tend to keep cars until they invent new car audio systems, we need to get a sports car this time around if we want to drive it to work instead of the nursing home.  That's when the Z came in. It felt good. It was two years old with 20,000 miles. It was in our price range.

But, we didn't buy it. Given the number of two-year old Zs on that lot, we can take our time. We still have to test a Prius ("Huge behemoth car!") and drive an Si. And then he will buy a Suburban or some other off-the-wall thing.

If they put Suburbans by the cash registers at Bob Evans I bet we'd have one.

Rocking in the Boy's Room

Gary's Check Engine light is toying with his emotions, so I picked him up today. First, though, I knew I would have to visit the bathroom, so he came down to let me in the lobby before we left. He said "I'll wait right out here, in the hall."

While I sat in the bathroom I was surprised to hear Gary in the men's room on the other side of the wall. First, I heard him knocking a rhythm on the wall. I almost knocked back, but I thought, "Well, Gary might still be in the hall and I don't want to send any secret codes in the bathroom, because I might find myself in a homosexual tryst."

Then I heard more Gary-specific noise. I thought, "That drum roll sound is just like the sound that the toilet paper roll makes when Gary grabs the strip and then flings his arm out so 100 feet of paper reels off which he then wraps around his hand 1000 times. I would imagine. If I'd ever seen it. Which I haven't."

Then I heard that drum roll sound change to a drum roll / paradiddle / fast rock beat. I grabbed my phone and called Gary. (Yes. Before I stood up. I'm lowering my standards. I peed in the shower last week too. There's a first time for everything. Shut up. Do you want to hear the rest of this story or not? )

"Gary," I whispered, because I have a little shame, "Are you in the bathroom?"
"Yes. Are you in the hall?"
"No. I'm in the bathroom ...  I can hear you."
"No way." (Pause) "I'm just urinating. You can't hear that."
I let that go. "No, you're drumming!"
"Ha! Yes, there's a shelf here over the urinal and I was drumming on it."

I was thinking later that night as we shuttled the Check Engine car to the dealer that it was great that I could recognize my husband's distinctive bathroom sounds and drum riffs. Then I was struck by the question that has already crossed your minds.

"Gary. How did you drum with both hands and urinate at the same time?"
"Well, I don't have to hang on to it all the time."
I WAS STAGGERED. What a man! What control! It can even shake itself!
He saw the awe on my face and clarified that really, while he's waiting to start he doesn't need to hang on (not going anywhere), but if he's started he stops drumming and latches on.

Still, it was pretty impressive for a moment.

A Post Under Protest

Gary: "Auuughghgh! Come look at this!"

Ellen: "Auuughghgh!"

Gary: "Auuughghgh! That is GREAT!"

Ellen: "Auuughghgh!"

Gary: "That HAS to go on your blog!"

Ellen: "The hell it does!"

Gary: "Are you kidding? This is GREAT! This is amazing."

Ellen: "No. This is gross."

Gary: "This is like ... like ... like a monolith!"

Ellen: "What are you doing - no! Not the camera! You are sick. This is sick!"

Gary: "I need to get the lighting just right."

Ellen: "Seriously, I'm not putting a picture of that on my blog. That is sick. And people will think I'm perverted. And that I have no control, in my own house, and that we should never be permitted to have children."

Gary: "YOU HAVE TO!"

Ellen: "Really, I already talk too much about that on my blog. People will think I'm obsessed."

Gary: YOU HAVE TO YOU HAVE TO!"

So, fine, I have to. If you are not at work, and you have a strong stomach, and if you will not report me to the authorities, and if you think Gary has even remotely good taste and want to be completely disabused of that notion, then DON'T CLICK THE OLD LINK BECAUSE IT IS UNEXPECTEDLY PERVERTED, BUT INSTEAD CLICK THIS LINK.*

But don't blame me. Because I told you not to. In fact, I beg you, don't click that link. Unless you are a fourteen year old boy.  Seriously, don't click it. And don't get a dog. Really.

* UPDATE! Gary came home today and took one look at that image on the giant 24" monitor and called me screaming, "AUUUUGGHGHGGHH! I HAD NO IDEA IT LOOKED LIKE THAT! THAT"S PERVERTED!" He says it was the high-resolution on the big screen that made him aware of the phallic properties of the poo sculpture. So, we have swapped it out for a photo of vertical (!) dog poo that is more in shadow and less anatomically correct. Sigh. Hidey-ho.

Morning Man

I hate the morning version of Gary. Morning Man does one of two things.

He wakes up early and screams in a panic from his bedroom:
"Ellen! It's ten till seven!" (five minute pause)
"Ellen! It's five till seven!" (five minute pause)
"Ellen it's -"
"GARY! Shut UP!"

He wakes up late and screams in a panic from his bedroom:
"Ellen! Gah! Why didn't you wake me up! Now I'm late! Way to be selfish! Thanks a lot!"

(And on the rare chance someone is wondering, "why do these vital loving people keep separate bedrooms," I answer that I hate Morning Man.  Read the above.  Really, I would put a pillow over Morning Man's face. Plus, it seems my snore / jiggly foot / stored energy is to blame for his insomnia, so I was routinely tossed from the marriage bed until I moved into the guest room. Not to worry. I still get bladder infections regularly.)

I'd be okay with the morning panic, even, except the Rant comes next. He vents all his wrath here so he doesn't vent it over there, at his job. Fine. However, today he ran out of work rant material, and since he can't do the ant rant since all the bathroom ants are dead, he started in on me.

"Bye!" I said, turned on my heel and left the bathroom.

"Oh, yeah, that's just great. Real mature! Why don't you ever help me out and wake me up when --"

I let the sound of my firmly shut bedroom door answer, and I got right back into bed. 

I thought I could wait him out, but finally I had to start getting ready. Morning Man was in the hall, he had shaved, showered and dressed, and was pulling on his socks. He spied me sneaking into the bathroom.

"DON'T YOU DARE! Don't you go into the the bathroom! I'm not done yet!" He charged up to the bathroom door, effectively trapping me in the very bathroom he still demanded I leave.

Huh, I thought. Theres some white stuff between his eyes. What is that? It looks like shaving cream. But he put his glasses on over it. Huh. A lot of shaving cream under the bridge of his glasses. I bet he doesn't know.

Then as Gary continued to rant I realized he had decided to shave that tricky area between the brows. Can't wax, too metrosexual. Can't pluck, too painful. Nair smells bad. What you gonna do?

Friends, I really tried not to let him know. He trapped me in the bathroom, yelled I shouldn't be in the bathroom, HE should be in the bathroom, and if I was a CONSIDERATE PERSON I wouldn't even be standing in HIS bathroom in the FIRST PLACE AND WHY DID I HAVE THAT WEIRD LOOK ON MY FACE? STOP LAUGHING!

I really should never have pointed to the mirror, but Morning Man does have a tiny sense of humor. He reacted by using his buttocks to push me back out in the hall.

Wild and Crazy Deer Party at the Firehouse

Gary came in at 2am a few days ago after walking the dog. This time, he woke me up without demanding money.

"Oh, my God, Ellen,  I just saw the same seven deer we saw on New Year's!"

I did a little Gary math adjustment and realized he was talking about the five deer that crossed our path on January second. I muttered into the pillow, "How do you know they were the same deer?"

"Because they were in the firehouse across the street from where we saw them cross the street before!"

"In the firehouse?"

"In the parking lot! There were two on the grass, and then three on the back parking lot under the streetlight!" (Gary realized that doesn't add up to seven.) "And then there were some more on the side yard! And they were gamboling!"

"Gambling?"

"Yeah, prancing and gamboling! I swear, they were the same deer."

So, we have the Rat Pack of deer roaming the neighborhood. Five to seven deer, hanging out where the excitement is, gambling.

This came up last night when Gary convinced me to go on the nightly walk with the dog. He convinced me by walking the dog before 10pm. I said I wanted to go straight to the Wild Deer Party at the Firehouse. We didn't go straight there, because Gary felt that the Deer Party didn't really get going until midnight, so we needed to take a long roundabout walk.

He steered me down a side street filled with what he claimed were mansions by saying, "Hey, come down this street and see the Crazy House." I walked a quarter of a mile and saw a house lit by a truly unnecessary number of floodlights. I scoffed that I had seen crazier at my in-laws, thank you, and where were Dean-o Deer and Frank Deer and Angie Deerkenson? He replied that the deer wouldn't be there yet, besides he wanted to show me the Glass Garage. "It's a garage, with Porsches and Ferraris in it, and it's all made out glass, I swear to God."

I was skeptical, and I wondered for a moment if my Gary and Erin's husband had been separated at birth, but I trudged on staring at every garage, until I noticed one (non-glass) garage had a deer lounging in front of it.

"Gary! A deer! No, two deer!" I saw four deer ears, and I squatted down to get a better look. (Big Houses, BIG yards. Those deer were fifty yards away.) The deer stood up and prepared to bound away. I stood up. They lounged back down. I squatted down. They stood up. This squat-stand, stand-lounge routine went on three times until I realized they thought I was adjusting my shotgun sight every time I squatted.

Eventually, we moved away, but only after Gary had "No! It's three deer! Five! No, I count seven! Seven deer! The same seven deer!"

So, evidently the Deer Pack went looking for the mythical Glass Garage, too, instead of partying with the firemen. I didn't see any wild deer party at the firehouse, and I didn't see the glass garage.

I also didn't see any Pumas. "No, there are pumas out here! They eat all the deer scat, that's why you never see any."

No Flies on Gary

I was talking with Friend #3, and told her that the best way to kill flies was to snap a dishtowel at them. She was dubious.

"No," I said, "You don' t even have to hit them, just snap the towel in their vicinity. The sonic boom created by the snapping of the towel stuns them, and they drop right out of the air."

She continued in her dubiousness. She was consistent in her dubiosity. She developed a 'tude of dube.

"Really," I insisted, "I've seen Gary do it."

"I don't doubt he did it, I just doubt there was a sonic boom that stunned them."

Well, I found backup for the sonic boom theory, but then I found no one else appears to kill flies this way. It occurred to me Gary may have just lucked out one time by snapping a towel just as an elderly fly reached the end of his days (day?), and now I'm spreading this lie. "No, really Ellen, the flies have coronary attacks brought on by the surprise. I learned it in Biology class!"

Has anyone else heard this theory? 

Trash Day

Gary like to play the trash game. You know this game. This is the game in which the husband, in lieu of taking out the the trash, manually compacts the trash into the kitchen wastebasket . Eventually, the wastebasket is so tight with trash you can no longer just pull out the trash bag; you have to pin the wastebasket between your knees and breech-birth the trash.

If the trash can is loaded up the way Gary likes it, there is a lot of suppressed potential energy in there, what with the candy wrappers and Scott towels filled with dog pee and syringes and empty tubs of vegetable dip and junk mail.

I know precisely what's in my trash because I have to touch the top few layers and stabilize it. This ensures the trash doesn't explode into the kitchen while I'm trying to dispose of it. I have to touch the trash. I hate to touch the trash.  It's trash. I want to forget it. I want to hide it in the cabinet under the counter. I don't want to fondle the trash with my lily whites. And I don''t want to pry it out of the wastebasket so I can pitch it into the big trash bin in the garage.

I realized the root of the problem when Gary left this morning. I had noticed the trash had reached critical mass the night before, and I was too tired to deal with it. So, I gently reached under the counter and tucked a lone scrap of cellophane on top of the trash souffle that had risen above the wastebasket rim.  That's why I was relieved this morning to hear Gary wrestling the trash out of the wastebasket. Then, before he left, he yelled, "Bye, honey! I took out your trash!"

My. Trash.

MY trash!

As in: we get divorced and I get the trash.

As in: separate bank accounts, separate vacations,  separate trash.

He left it out so I can see it. He says I'm lucky he didn't put a spotlight on it. I say he's lucky I let him live to take out the trash another day.

Wee Hours, High Finance

Two a.m. Dark. I am sleeping.  Gary has been paying his bills, because you know that's always a good way to relax yourself before bed.

"Ellen?"

No response. At first, because I am asleep, and then because sometimes if I lie there quietly he gives up.

"Ellen, are you asleep?"

"I'm trying to be asleep. Leave me alone."

"I have to talk to you."

"Now. Right now. Two a.m. You have to talk now."

"Yes! Yes! I have to talk to you right now!"

I sit up.  I bite out, "What?"

"I need you to transfer some money from your account to mine. I'm crazy overdrawn at the bank."

I trust-fall back into bed. "Okay. Goodnight."

"So, I need it now."

"I'll do it tomorrow. Shut up and let me sleep."

"No! Now! If I don't get some more money in my account --"

"Gaaahhh! I will pay you three hundred dollars if you shut up right now."

(An aside: If you want to make a really dramatic bed exit, get yourself a down comforter. They make a nice gesture flying through the air, but then they land with an emphatic "thwop!" Kind of the physical embodiment of a heavy sigh.)

So, Gary has three-hundred of my hard-earned dollars today because he knows how to hit me when I'm weak. And, incidentally, he didn't even shut up.

 

Gary Meets the Press

Ask me what I did tonight. Assssssssssk me. Ask me, she breathed, as her eyes narrowed and her hands shook.

I watched Meet The Press for two hours.

"Huh," you say, "I thought Meet The Press was only an hour show."

Yeah, but it takes two hours when Gary pauses the TiVo every five seconds to scream "McMaggot!" at John McCain. Gary, who long ago voted for George Bush the Elder. It would appear I have created a monster. Converts are the most fanatical followers. Of course, I do wonder what provoked John McCain to sell his soul, but I don't scream at his image on the tv.

Actually, I was hypnotized by his image on the set of Meet the Press:

I was imagining this conversation went on in the McCain house the morning of the taping:

"John! What are you doing in that green tie?"

"What's wrong with this tie, honey?"

"It doesn't match the Meet the Press set. You have to wear your gold tie or your rust tie. And your light blue shirt. And your gray suit, because they have these gray struts holding everything together in the background."

Can you believe Theresa Heinz Kerry let her husband leave the house like this?