Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

On the Epidemic of Heart Attacks in the Rabbit Population

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes. It was an old rabbit."

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

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

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

One: Rabbits really can die of fright.

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

Seven! (7) How Many Is Seven? (sehhhvehhhn...)

Congrats to everyone who answered Seven!

It was almost eight. As I left she said, "I hope you feel better soon."

"No, really I'm fine."

"That cold can last a while."

So, I couldn't count that as Mom-generated sympathy.

So, brownies baked in the Famous Edge Brownie Pan for:

Becs
LaisyDaisy
Autumn

Because seven is the magic number. (All BNL children, in chorus: "Seven Eight Nine!")

AND, a new Blog From Beyond is up at Queen Mum.

Place Your Bets

Saturday is the big Dual Mother's Day / Birthday Party for my mother-in-law. It should last six hours.

Let's place some bets.

How many times will my mother-in-law mention my mother and how sad it is that I don't have my mother on this Mother's Day and how terribly I must be missing my mother since it is Mother's Day and even though I don't have a mother my mother will live on always in my heart.

How many times?

I'm serious. I'm going to keep track. If your guess is closest I might even bake you something and mail it.

Place your bets in the comments. Betting will end Monday night.

Please, no doping.

Easter '08

E is for The Estate.
The Estate remains unsettled. Wilma has noticed that every few days the phone rings and the caller won't wait through the answering machine message. She's convinced it is the rightful heirs harassing them. I told her John McCain was harassing them and it would stop in early November.

A is for Arguing.
I walked in to a room and heard Gary proclaim, as fact, two errors about Mom. To wit, he said Mom is having cataract surgery on her smaller cataract. False. She got a second opinion and is now going to try a new glasses prescription. And he said she could miraculously use the hand that hasn't worked for almost sixty years. All I can think of is he heard me say "Mom" and "hand" and he added the word "miraculous" just to please his mother, because she prays for my Mom a lot. So I was forced to correct him, and thus argued with him in front of his parents. So because it was Easter, I told him mom could play the piano again.

S is for the S_____'s house.
Wilma let it slip that they'll be willing their house to the Church. I wanted to suggest they give it to the disinherited children, but I could not be heard over the screaming and complaining.

T is for Tinkerbell.
Tinkerbell the dachslut sticks her tongue into your mouth in an attempt to find food you may not have yet swallowed. Wilma had to put all the food in the refrigerator after she cooked it because she was sure Tinkerbell would sneak it off the stovetop. She had no other choice. The S_______s don't shut dogs away in rooms by themselves, especially when they have been through the Rottweiler Trauma.

E is for Eating.
It is no wonder that I don't cook for Gary any more. Every bite of food he put in his mouth was evaluated and critiqued. Ham ("Inedible!  Awful! The top few slices were good, but the rest is just gristle!), Potato Salad ("Cold! Why did you serve it cold? It's better at room temperature!"), Asparagus ("We prefer it stir-fried; it's crunchier!"), and then Cherry Pie (Grunt. "More pie.")

R is for Resurrection.
In a vain attempt to spark an Easter Miracle, Wilma responded to all complaints with, "It's Easter! Jesus is risen! We should be happy, we shouldn't complain!" Her children complained louder. I can't wait until the next time Wilma complains. And I remind her Jesus is listening. And his feelings are hurt.

Sick Puppy

A search that led some lost Google soul here made me think of this tale from Gary's childhood.

Gary and his two sisters were under ten at the time. One day, they were playing in the yard with their black Labrador, Happy. Happy was in high dog spirits that day, and the kids were chasing him around, playing.

Then suddenly, their screams turned to screams of horror. Karen began to cry. Gary ran in to tell his Mom that something was wrong with Happy's "thing."

Wilma came out to view the state of Happy's penis, and found that it had a red protruding  growth a third the length of the dog.  Happy was still jumping about and kept jumping on the kids. "Eeeeeeeeeeee! He's touching me with it! EEEeeeeeeeEEEE!"

"It looked like lipstick," Wilma will say to this day. "I'd never seen anything like that. And the kids were screaming, and Ken was at work."

So of course, Happy had to be driven to the vet and diagnosed. Just to express the level of hysteria, Wilma drove only rarely, and stopped driving soon after. But the dog was obviously really sick, and the kids were crying.

Happily, no biopsy was needed, and the dog was diagnosed with a penis.

That's why I understand why someone Googled "Red + dog penis." (And I am proud to have been one of the few R-rated results. X-rated dog sex is popular.) I can easily see myself doing the same thing. My experience of the erect penis is limited, but Gary's doesn't look like that. Dogs are so open about their erections, and they have them even if they've been neutered, so "Penis" wouldn't have been my first guess either.

In Which My Brother-in-Law Almost Gets It

All I know is we were putting gifts in piles on Christmas Eve. I was at the in-laws with the whole (Christmas-observing) crowd: Gary, Karen, Karen's husband (Mr. Wonderful), Ken, Wilma, me.

As I bent over my pile, there were footsteps behind me. The last thing I heard was Karen bossing her husband, demanding he help me with my present pile.

Then I felt him my PAT MY ASS.

It's like when heroes report diving into the water to save drowning victims: I didn't think, I just reacted. My spine snapped straight up and I heard myself haughtily pronounce:

"You did not  just pat my ass."

Luckily, I was pivoting to skewer him with a withering glare, and I faced him by the time I got to "ass," so it came out:

"You did not  just pat my - oh, hi hon. It's you."

"What the hell?" Gary grimaced at me.

This is what happens when you have a husband named Gary, a brother-in-law also named Gary, and a sister-in-law who uses an equally bossy tone with both.

Thoughts After Ones Third Straight Viewing of 'A Christmas Story'

Wilma and Ken saw A Christmas Story last year, hated it, said they were bored, turned it off.

This year, Karen said 'I hate that movie. It's stupid."

(Karen also asked me not to remind her of anything embarrassing; if she's forgotten catching me "naked" there's a reason why.)

Last year I clutched my head and screamed at the thought someone wouldn't like this movie. This year, for the first time, I saw the first fifteen minutes of A Christmas Story. I'd never seen the first fifteen minutes before. It is kind of stupid. There's a long fantasy sequence with Black Bart, which pales next to the Soap Poisoning and A+++++++ sequences later. They actually should start the movie with Flick getting his tongue stuck to the flagpole.

Of course "Bumpkissssssessss!" is the best line ever. Merry Christmas!

The Estate: An Update

Previously seen on The Estate:
Gary's closeted Mormon uncle passes away with way too much money. The money goes to his wife, Gary's aunt.
Soon after, Gary's aunt also dies. The money goes to Gary's other aunt and Gary's dad.

But, you say, that was months ago! Months and months!

Well, a few months ago, Gary reported that the uncle had a child from a previous marriage (actually, two marriages before) who is now sixty-five.

And this sixty-five year old child, who was pointedly excluded in the uncle's will, is demanding years of back child support. 

Now, I say "You go gir - uh - old broad! You get what's yours!" Gary is saying, "What! Give her a DNA test! How do we even know she's his child!"

So, I figure the next thing will be that ... umm ... let's see ... oh, it's drug money and the Feds get it all. Or, there's a poisoning. OR, Ken leaves Wilma for a Vegas showgirl.

Dog Scandal

I met the newest addition to the in-law family this evening. She's a little dachshund named Tinkerbell. Given that my in-laws are 82 and 78, I made a special effort to bond with what will be my dog someday.

Tink, like all S_______ dogs, is a refugee from a dog shelter. Good for them, I say, but it means that the owners have to imagine the dog's history. That's why all the in-law's dogs are said to have been  abused, neglected, and abandoned.

However, they got a little extra information about Tink. She was found in an abandoned apartment with three other dogs, including one Rottweiler. The shelter said a retired couple would be perfect owners for Tinkerbell, because she needed extra attention. She was a sad puppy since she was being separated from this Rottweiler with whom she had formed a special bond.  "As if Tinkerbell thought this dog was her substitute mother," they cooed. The S_______ decided this was a sign from God, they were destined to have this poor abandoned puppy, and they sent her off to be spayed.

The operation revealed these shocking details:

• Tinkerbell? Pregnant! At only 14 in dog years.
• The babies? Half dachshund, half ... Rottweiler!
• The Rottweiler? Evidently not a mother/daughter bond! Freaky!
  

"So ... " I wondered when Gary told  me that his parents new dog was into Kinky Incestuous Inter-breed Underage S & M / Punishment Sex with Older Bigger Transvestite Rottweilers, "What happened to the Rott-shund puppies?"

"Oh, well they gave Tinkerbell a Cesarean Section, and ... you know ... got rid of the puppies. They would have hurt her if they'd grown to full size."

So, my Catholic in-laws are now proud parents of a  puppy who got an abortion, possibly a partial-birth abortion to save the life of the mother because she likes her men big. I think she IS a gift from God.

Fresh Weirdness Updated

Wilma and Ken have received eight condolence cards. Am I missing something? Really, should I be sending out condolence cards?

Fresh Weirdness From the In-Laws

We got a lovely card from Gary's Aunt Pat and Uncle Dick today. It was addressed to the both of us. I opened it up and found it was a sympathy card. No note, no explanation, just signed "Love, Pat and Dick."

"Did your parents die and no one told us?" I asked, "Or has your uncle confused us with the Muslim side of the family?"

"No, he said, "If there's a death in the family everyone gets a condolence card."

"Okay, but you've had four aunts and uncles die , and we never got a card."

"It goes by generation," he explained, "If a young person dies all the young people get a card."

Is this typical? My family doesn't "do" cards, much less condolence cards. (I wrote the late bride's family a note. And, we called our nephew but he didn't return the call.) I suppose when each of Gary's uncles or aunts died his Mom got a card from her remaining brother and sister? Besides, we're one generation removed from the young people. Still, it's nice that he sent a card. Especially since no one even thought of inviting him to the wedding/funeral/festivities.

Of course, I haven't lost sight of the reality, which is that everyone in the state of Missouri: Muslim, Catholic, Wiccans alike should all get condolence cards based on the enormity of the tragedy.

So, condolence cards? Is it by generation in your family, or is Gary's the only family that does this? I'm thinking it's an in-law thing, like all the females getting gifts on Incest Valentines Day.

You Are What You Eat: Updated

Well, it was a weekend of surprises, odd food, and new relationships. I really wish Miss Manners put out an etiquette book on Muslim weddings, because I should have studied up.

But right now, I am going to sleep. I think I'll be posting about this (with pictures) all week*.

Oh, and I ate goat.

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Edited to Add: *Nope. No I won't. Hate to be cryptic.

In Keeping with Muslim Tradition

Off to KC. Today is Day Two of the three-day Kashmiri wedding of my nephew.

Last night was the painting of the hands with Henna. Henna Party! We were not invited, but that is fine.

Today and tomorrow are the bride's and groom's receptions, respectively.

Gary bought a lovely card:

Yep, and it plays the Chicken Dance when you open it. I'm sure the new in-laws will love us.

Dress-up

My nephew's wedding is fast approaching. This is Arhan-fay's wedding: he's the son of Gary's Muslim-convert sister Sandy. Sandy has her own sect of Islam which prohibits anything Sandy doesn't like and allows Crab Rangoon and Special Fried Rice, her favorite non-Halal (read 'kosher') foods. This is to say Sandy plays fast and loose with the rules, unless it suits her to be the current incarnation of the Prophet himself. This liberal reading of the Qur'an is what allowed her to give me a shot glass for my birthday.

"Woohoo!" I said via long distance, "Shot Glass! Party on! I will toast you!"
"Oh, stop," she scoffed, "It isn't that kind of shot glass. It isn't for drinking."
"Yes. Yes I believe it is."
"No, it's a Kansas City souvenir shot glass. You put it on your shelf." You know. Like a souvenir condom. Allah winks at souvenirs. Thus is it rationalized, thus shall it be so.

Okay, so the wedding is in Kansas City and it will be a Kashmiri wedding, since the bride's family is from the Kashmir province. (You've heard of it: picture Wolf Blitzer saying "the disputed Kashmir province.") It's between India and Pakistan, so they wedding will be part Indian customs (Henna painting) and part Pakistani customs (harboring terrorists).

Karen, Gary's other sister, is in a state about what to wear. She is the ultimate conformist, and now we have to go to a wedding where we'll stand out like a handful of sore thumbs. She made a nice choice of a sparkly gray tunic and matching pants, but the problem is it isn't colorful enough. She knows these weddings are colorful.

I suggested a colorful headscarf.

"Oh, I'm not wearing one of those. Sandy said we didn't have to."

This sealed my determination to wear a headscarf, because a) Karen would hate it and b) all Sandy Sect Rules are automatically in question and  c) I don't want men lusting after my hair.  Well, and maybe I guess I want to fit in. Okay, it's because I look good in a scarf.

The groom is having his own clothing problems. It appears he is being asked to buy quite the pricey suit of Kashmiri clothing for the ceremony. Karen related this, and added:

"I told him flat out, here's what you do, you find a costume shop -"
"Karen. Karen. You didn't."
"Well! They have everything in those places! Men rent tuxedos, don't they? He should be able to rent his wedding costume."

All I know is we'll all be walking on thin ice at this wedding. My cleavage is going to be non-existent, my hair will be covered, and I'm not shaking any men's hands. Of course, as soon as Sandy wheels out the very non-Kashmiri five-tier wedding cake ("I don't care about halal! I want a cake!") they'll all start dancing and doing body shots from souvenir shot glasses.

Birthday Gift

Today we celebrated my birthday at the S______s. (Remember, before you grant any birthday wishes, the in-laws assume that if you are celebrating in the same season as the date of birth you are in the ballpark. My birthday isn't till well into August.)

I got the BEST gift!

Matching boy and girl Butter people! Check it OUT!

They Butter Corn! "We Butter Corn!" it screams on the box. "But How?" you cry.

First, you decapitate them, then you remove the rectal plug, then you violate them with butter. Allow me to demonstrate on Butter Boy. It's a little blurry, he must have been moving.

Then, you push the plug upward. Yes, just like Butter Deodorant!

Then, you butter corn with it. For some reason, there are two, in case you have a gender preference, or need to butter corn with both hands.

Or, alternatively, you can violate the Butter Person of the Opposite Sex, like this:

Or, like this:

So, usually I am gracious when I get in-law gifts. I was speechless. I couldn't think of a thing to say, except, "Why do you think I need butter deodorant?"

Karen: "It butters corn!"

Me: "Uh. Huh."

Wilma: "Well, if you don't like it, I'll take it! We have corn all the time! You can re-gift it at Christmas!"

Well, okay, then, maybe I will. As they say on eBay, they were only "Lightly Used."

In Which the In-Laws Review Seventies TV

At one point Gary was able to force his eighty-year old parents to bend to his will and bought them a DVD player. Every holiday since then they have been given DVDs. For a time, Gary tried to get them movies. Then we would be forced to hear the S_____ movie reviews. For example, they thought A Christmas Story was (wait for it) boring! I don't know what else they said because Gary and I were running in circles screaming and clutching our heads. Perhaps they expected it to be the Story of Christmas, Tennessee Ernie Ford's "crowning achievement."

Our next movie attempt was That Darn Cat, ultimately rejected. They got as far as the scene in which some disrespectful child wipes his hands on the curtain, and Wilma was out.

Finally, we hit pay dirt with The Long Long Trailer, which led to the revelation that the S_______s have never seen I Love Lucy. (Or as my little Peruvian neuropsychiatrist likes to say, "Who is Loo-cy?") This would make more sense if you had ever seen Wilma enter a room in which the TV is on.  She snaps that TV off like a fresh green bean. TVs "make her nervous."

So we bought them some I Love Lucy DVDs because you know, they almost never air that show that on television. They loved them so much we got other "rare" "cult" titles like The Dick Van Dyke Show, Mayberry RFD, and Gomer Pyle. They loved them all. Then we branched into the color era: The Mary Tyler Moore Show, That Girl. I think Wilma especially liked this "unhappy career woman" genre. She was crushed to hear they haven't made a DVD of Rhoda.

Some series were deemed unacceptable. The Munsters? Too scary. Didn't see the humor in it, evidently. They didn't like Green Acres, either, because "pigs can't talk." This, I grant you, is true. Since they like cinema verite, I am happy we never bought Bewitched. Which, in addition to the terrifying premise, features one of Satan's minions.

This is why I hold out little hope for the Father's Day gift: Season One of The Addams Family.

On Religion

First, if you don't want to catch up with my in-laws, go read something funny at Jesus Christ's Cool Blog! Oh, Sherri, thank you. This is funny. This is as funny as Don Novello/Father Guido Sarducci/Lazlo Toth (American). In fact, it kind of sounds like him. It's so good I'm saving it for a treat.

On the darker side of religion, my in-laws are using their mighty mighty powers of exaggeration to make a happy occasion into something painful and unpleasant.

Let's play a game. Use your imagination. Take this scenario, and then see how you can twist the facts.

The Facts
Arhan-fay is the son of Gary's Muslim sister Sandy and her admittedly mail-order Pakistani husband. Ex-husband. And they got ten years out of it, longer than many marriages I know of. And marriage to Sandy might measured in dog years. She could pack seven year's worth of drama into one human year.

Arhan-fay is twenty-three, and has been dating ...ummm ...  Aha-tay for six months. He's known her since childhood, since they went to the same Islamic school in KC. But, a month ago, they broke up. And there was great sadness. Arhan-fay was distraught.

But, lo! They are to be wed! Sandy is beside herself with delight and tells us that there are two weddings thrown in their culture, one thrown by the bride's family and one by the groom's family. I was not aware of this custom since obviously, the bride's family wasn't too happy about welcoming the freshly-postmarked groom at Sandy's wedding.

The wedding is next month.

These are the facts, or as close as you can get after passing them through the Gary filter. Believe me, he didn't come home and grunt, "Arhan-fay. Wedding. Next month."

Take just a moment to imagine what the S_____ family have decided is the background drama. Use your creativity. (Or, you could visit Jesus Christ's Cool Blog! Jesus is waiting. He's waiting today. Come with thy sins; at His feet lowly bow. Come, and no longer delay.)

The Same Story with Twisted S______ Embellishments
(Class, who went with sudden unexpected pregnancy? Ha! Wrong. Too humdrum and everyday for that family. Yawn. Same-old, same-old.)

Assorted S______s all talking loudly at the same time:
"After the breakup, Aha-tay's family decided she must be wed! And they arranged a marriage for her! And Arhan-fay was one of the selections! But there were three other boys in the running! But she picked him! Even though they were on the outs! It's craziness! Can you imagine!"

...Oh, and he doesn't have a job and he's too young and where would they live. You know, the same grief everybody gets when they decide to be happy in the face of the in-laws.

I know I should make some calls to the more rational twigs on the family tree (and a moody teenage girl is the source of reason, what does that say). But really, I am tired of assuring Gary that everything is okay after he's pumped up the drama.

Well, and after all the Estate drama actually turned out to be founded in reality, I'm a little gun-shy.

Lip Balm of Gilead

Gary was on a tear today as we drove to his Mom's birthday celebration. He was behind on buying birthday gifts for his Mom because yesterday the batteries in his computer room were exuding some type of noxious gas. ("ACID gas!" Gary screams.)

The pressure was on today, this morning, and we sped to the mall to make decoy purchases so Wilma would not begin to suspect that DVD box sets cost more than $9. I was in a bad mood too, so I took to agreeing loudly with Gary every time he screamed.

For example, we passed a church  that had someone directing traffic so the attendees could exit the parking lot in a timely manner.

Gary screamed, "ARE YOU KIDDING ME? ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS?"
Instead of my usual placating reaction, I screamed, "JESUS FREAKS! YOU DON'T OWN THIS ROAD!"
"What is YOUR problem?" Gary asked.
"I'm just agreeing with you, hon. - YEAH, FAT ARMS, YOU NEED TO GET TO THE IHOP BEFORE ANYONE ELSE DOES! WHAT THE HELL! - What's wrong? Can't I express myself to my own husband?"

This anti-religious theme carried over into Wilma's actual celebration. Karen got her a bath and beauty gift bag with a Spiritual theme. For example, one of the gifts was this (and I so want you to see it I won't even make you click a link):

"What makes them religious," Gary wondered aloud, "Are they made with holy water?"
"Maybe they're blessed by a priest," Karen shrugged.
"They use votive candle wax in the Holy Chapstick," I offered.

Wilma also got this:

Who writes the copy for this?
"You have to move product AND mention Jesus! Plus, don't forget the price."
"How do I tie the moisturizer in to Jesus?"
"Uh, it contains water, just like the Dead Sea does ... did? I mean, you could say it's Holy water, but that would be a lie."
"I still don't think it's 'Jesus-y' enough. Can I change 'pampering' to 'flagellating?'"
"Oh, let's just hang a cross on it and that'll do it."

Get Me There

How I give directions:
"Type in maps.yahoo.com."

How I used to give directions:
"Turn right on Elm street.
Drive 3 miles.
Turn left on Perry, then an immediate right on St. Antoine. It's the second house on the right."

How my in-laws STILL give directions:
"Pretend you're going to the library, the one by the A&W*.
Turn right, then, drive until you see a Hucks**. The street after the Hucks is the one you want, so you turn left there.
After you see a bush with yellow flowers*** there's a street on the right.
No. Left. Wilma! Is it a right or a left? Well, we think its a right. If you go left and you can't find it then you're going the wrong way.
It's the house on the right with a porcupine bootscraper on the porch."

*The A&W closed twenty years ago.

**Hucks is to rural Missoui what Starbucks is to Seattle. Honestly, you pass three Hucks after the library.

***This is a forsythia bush. This bush flowers two weeks out of the year.

The Return of the Mormons

Some of you may recall that Gary's Virtually Unknown and Surprisingly Mormon Uncle died this past year. Gary didn't know him that well. He sent his Aunt (Ken's sister) a fruit basket with a thoughtful note: "Have something to eat, you'll feel better." (I swear this is true.)

The  healthy fruit did not make her feel better and she died, ironically, of colon cancer four months later.

I know I sound heartless but Gary didn't have a close relationship with these people (as evidenced by the fact he wasn't clear on the man's name.) Here is the astonishing part: Mormon Uncle and Newly deceased Mormon Aunt? Had no children. Gary thought they did, but he was wrong.

So. Aunt and Uncle have died childless. This happened a few months ago, and Gary came home one day from his parents saying that they saying his Dad and surviving sister were going to split the "Estate."

"Estate!" I snorted, "What did he do?"
"He was a college professor."
"Oh, so that would be ... hmmmm... two grand split two ways?"
"No, he had a PhD. He wrote books!"
"So half a grand split two ways?" I mocked, because that's how I am. Gary's family is Lower Middle Class, and I am Upper Middle Class. This is just a statement of fact. That's how our family dynamic is.

Of course, the last few months I have had many opportunities to roll my eyes about the S______ Estate. Ken decided to take his half and split it into quarters, with one part for him and one part each for his three kids. "Hmm, so $500 split four ways..."

In fact, it was so inconsequential I didn't even blog it. I figured I would wait until the will came and then I'd have a great ending for a post. "Stupid in-laws! Getting all excited about an estate of ..."

Uh... what does that will say? Can I see that again?

Imagine a VERY Big Number. Big. So big it would be tasteless to enter it into a blog post.  Now double it. Two of them. Ken gets one.

The first thing Gary said was (after the Profanities of Delight, very non-LDS of him) "I could invest in Gold." People, I swear to you just this weekend Mom said to me: "Don't listen to people who tell you to invest in gold." I told this to Gary. "Oh, come on," Gary scoffed. "Gold is a great investment." "Mom?" I said to the ceiling, "Mom, I can just hear you!" I pointed at my head. "I can hear her in my head, telling me not to listen to you." I tried to tell him, Mom. Oh, and Mom? That suggestion we keep separate bank accounts? Not such a good idea now.

SO, I unjustly ridiculed my in-laws for counting the golden geese before they were hatched. I am an asssssssss. Feel free to ridicule me. 

Gary has already begun to mock me.

Money changes everyone.

Imaginary Conversations

I have concluded the reason my in-laws communicate so poorly is that after every real conversation, they have an extra extended imaginary conversation. Within minutes, the line between delusion and reality becomes blurred and they believe the imaginary conversation has taken place.

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For example: Real Conversation #1 -
Gary: Can I bring anything for dinner Saturday, Mom? Do you want me to bring GarySalad? (Gary's own special concoction of Greek Salad.)
Wilma: No hon, it's your birthday. Besides, that salad is so good no one will want to eat my food!

(Yeah, that was the real one. Wilma talks to Gary like that all the time. That's why I have to be so mean to him, to teach him humility.)

Imaginary Extended Conversation #1 -
Gary: Are you sure?
Wilma: Well, you know I just said no, but in my heart yes, I really want you to bring your salad because it is soooo goood and I loooove you sooooo much. And because your wife can't cook.

Real-life Result #1 -
Gary tore around the store because he had promised his Mom he would bring salad, then he made the salad, brought it over, and Wilma said (of course) "Why did you bring that? I told you not to!" "No, you expressly told me to bring it!"

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Real Conversation #2 -
Gary: Hey Mom, is Sandy bringing Arzaana-fay AND her boyfriend when we celebrate my birthday Saturday?
Wilma: Yes, it's so sweet. They just got "promised."
Gary: Well, you know they can't both sleep under the same roof. That means one of them has to sleep someplace else, or they have to drive back the same day.

(I believe at this point both of them became distracted and they both had an imaginary conversation.)

Wilma's Imaginary Extended Conversation #2 -
Gary: Arzaana-fay could spend the night with us, and her boyfriend would sleep here, then tomorrow they'll all drive back to Kansas City.
Wilma: Oh, Gary, you were always so good, we never had to worry about things like that with you.

Gary's Imaginary Extended Conversation #2 -
Wilma: Well, they can't both sleep as an unmarried seventeen-year old couple under the same roof, 'promised' or not. So I suppose they'll just have to get back in their car and drive the four hours back to Kansas City!
Gary: It's unthinkable they would consider doing anything else. I will tell my wife this plan right now, and she will believe me as if God and Allah both came to her in a vision, wrote a little song about this, and brought along a sign language interpreter for the hearing impaired.

Real-life Result #2 -
Yeah, I did believe him. Mainly, I believe him because his family is just goofy enough to drive eight hours in one day for Corned Beef and Cabbage in celebration of the Feast of Saint Patrick which was, like Gary's birthday, during the month of March.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
The above led to this conversation between me and the conservative sister Karen:

Real Conversation #3 -
Karen: Hey Ellen, I just talked with Arzaana-fay and she says she'd be fine spending the night right here since she and her boyfriend and her mom have to get up early tomorrow and drive back to Kansas City.
Me: No. Way. There is no way. Did you check with Wilma about this?
Karen: Yeah, she said she didn't mind.
Me: She said those words. Out loud. Are you sure?
Karen: Yeah, she said Arhan-fay and the boyfriend could sleep in my old room, and Sandy could sleep in your old room, and Arzaana-fay could sleep on the couch in the living room.
Me: She can't possibly think they'll stay that way.
Karen: (shrugs)
Me: Seriously, you've heard something wrong. You are remembering an imaginary conversation. Go check with your Mom again.

Karen shrugged again. And then I bet you anything, she went back in and reported the conversation she was having with the voices in her head. That would be the imaginary conversation in which I said "I think they should be going at it on the couch! Woo-hoo! I think sex between teenagers should be encouraged! And applauded! And grades should be given!"

Birthday Day

Gary was born today, on March 20th, 1954. (I KNOW! Codger.)

This caused confusion for quite some time in the S________ family, since Wilma established in her mind her baby was born on the first day of Spring. So, instead of memorizing the birthday of her then only child, she instead remembered that "Gary was born" -- sorry, strike that -- "God blessed our family with this perfect, adorable, blameless child on the first day of Spring." Which varies every year from March 20 and March 21. It appears she never noticed the child had a different birth date every year, because that family celebrates, as you know, when it is convenient.

This meant that some years Gary was a Taurus and other years Gary was a Pisces. They bought him schlock for both astrological signs, you would think this would have made them notice.

Finally, when he went to get his driver's license someone pointed out the discrepancy, since the first day of spring that year didn't fall on the same date as his birth certificate showed.

At any rate, he is fifty-three today. I got him two faster thinner cymbals for his drum set. The in-laws are celebrating this weekend. And we are going out for dinner. And a new year starts again.

Oh. Man, I am Not Looking Forward to This

A perfect storm of in-law crisis is brewing at the S_____ house this weekend. They have planned all of these activities for Saturday:

1. Niece birthday
2. Nephew birthday
3. Father-in-law birthday (because hey, we don't have to spend money on Christmas for the kids, so we are loaded when January comes around)
4. Valentine's Day, or as I like to call it, Incest Day.

- Let me interrupt this to report I just realized I completely spaced on my brother's birthday, because as you can see the actual date of someone's birth is immaterial in the S_____ culture.

So aside from the expense of four dueling holidays and everyone but Gary and I clamoring to be the center of attention for the day, there is a more ominous undercurrent rumbling on the horizon.

Nephew may be moving in with his girlfriend. I only know this because Karen (Gary's sane sister) sent an email cataloging what we cannot talk about on Saturday. "Don't mention the naked photo that really upsets Dad. Don't talk about religion and politics that really upsets Mom and Sandy. Don't say anything about you-know-who moving in with his girlfriend."

My first thought? "Ken thought that whole naked thing was a riot when we first mentioned it. Wilma must have gotten on his case. Hm. Wilma thought it was funny too. Wonder what happened to change - whaaa? Arhan-fay is moving in with his girlfriend?"

And of course it all became clear. Wilma and Ken know it's futile to try to impart moral guidance to their grandchildren, so as soon as they heard about their grandson living in sin they've doubled up on the one person they think they can guilt: their 52-year-old son, Gary. 

Actually, this post has been therapeutic. Not a bit of this crisis or celebration centers on me. I can just sit back and enjoy the show.

Naked to Mine In-Laws

Oooo, boy howdy. Are we in trouble.
Gary and I are going to Hell.
Catholic Hell.
Charismatic Catholic Hell.

Gary's Mom is condemning us to C.C.Hell because of the nudity issue. The nudity we will embrace on the BNL cruise. See, Gary told them of the nudity on the heels of their daily downer phone call from Gary's sister Sandy, which always distresses them.

Gary cheered them up with, "Hey, guess what I'm going to do on this cruise? I'm going to be naked!" I was there, and I heard the response. "Ho ho ho," and "he hee hee," and a couple of "tra la las." No smiting from God.

Well, they've had a week to consider it (and a week to hear Gary's sister Karen's opinion of it, I fancy) and now we have third-class tickets to Hell. ("Fans, you've been listening to Third Class Tickets to Hell, the new single by The Incestuous Pandas.")

I wasn't there when Gary was condemned, but reportedly his Father was too angry about it to even talk about it. His Mom had to relay all the information. I feel for her because now instead of just praying we don't shipwreck they have to pray for our very souls.

And who do they blame? Me? HAH! HahahaahHA No! The band. They blame Barenaked Ladies and their demonic influence over their virtuous son and incorruptible daughter-in-law. They point the Pointy Fingers of Judgment directly at the band.  (Strangely, Gary and I are going to Hell, while the band seems to be in the clear, hell-wise.)

Gary went through the DVD of all the videos in an attempt to find one that made the band (and by association us) look innocent. Strangely, every video had either a) red hair (sign of the devil, ref. August 8, 2001)  or b) dark chin beards or c) dreadlocks or d) cats at parties.  So, no luck there. I'm thinking we could If I Had A Million Dollars off iTunes, reverse it in SoundForge, and dub in "Wilma? Ken? This is God. Ellen and Gary are going to Heaven," then reverse it back.

(Oddly, the first time the in-laws met my parents they walked into a house decorated prominently with charcoals from my Figure Drawing Class. "Oh, Ellen drew that nude in art class," bragged my Dad.)

-----------------------------(brief interlude)-------------------------------------

Gary just came back in from walking the dog. "You know, Ellen, I don't know if I feel comfortable doing this naked photo."

-----------------------------(brief interlude)-------------------------------------

I swear, just as I was typing in that LAST paragraph Gary talked himself back into the naked photo. Here's where he's at now:

"If we're lined up, and I'm on the end maybe, or if theres a guy and youre on one side and Im on the other side, maybe - I just can't hear something like "oh my god theres an old naked perv over there" - I'd have to spend the rest of the trip in my cabin. I have pervo-phobia. No, that's fear of pervs. whats fear of being identified as a perv? I'll check it on the internet."

(Sorry about the typos, but I was taking dictation right as he was saying it.) Sigh. Now he's looking up the definition of pervert and various types of perversion to be sure there isn't a specific type of "stand naked next to another naked person" perversion he may be found guilty of. You can always count on a visit with the in-laws to make Gary feel guilty about something he wasn't even doing.

Revenge of the Clones!

I've always been so jealous during national elections. One of the coasts will have the big issue, or someone else votes on gay marriage, and all the Sunday morning talk shows ignore Missouri because we don't have the hot topic. But now, the stem cell initiative has made us the flavor of the month. Michael J. Fox and Rush Limbaugh are arguing in ads shown in Missouri. Cool! We actually count.

I'm even excited about the billboard I saw yesterday that said nothing but "STOP HUMAN CLONING! Vote No on Prop 2."

Well, the issue came even closer to home today. Gary paid a visit to his Charismatic Catholic parents. Any guesses on their views on stem cells? Anyone? Class?

I wasn't there, but judging from all the shrieking and hopping about that Gary was doing while he told the story, I'd say they aren't big fans of the proposition because, as they explained (sort of rationally, it seemed) to Gary:

1) Human Clones? They have no souls! An army of clones! Ewww! Creepy!
2) Women will sell their eggs!
3) Women will sell their embryos!

"MS!" Gary screamed, "They could cure MS! Ellen HAS MS!" (Evidently this bothers Gary much more than it bothers me.)
"Oh, they'll never cure MS," his parents scoffed.
"THEY CAN'T CURE MS BUT THEY CAN MAKE AN ARMY OF CLONES?" Gary screamed like a woman.

I think this is the first time I've ever heard of Gary taking my side over his parents'. This is so great! I feel liberated. I could, oh, sell my eggs, since I'm not using them, and then make my own personal army of clones, I'm so happy.

"THEM! MY PARENTS!" Gary shrieked at me, "THEY ARE THE ARMY OF CLONES!" Then he began goose-stepping around the great room as I rolled off the couch giggling.

I think it's awful the in-laws are denying life to those poor unborn clones. And what's so bad about an army of clones? Really, let's think this out.  Who says they're going to join the army? Picture this: baby clones, just identical twins really, so damn cute. Then they grow up; go to school at some government institution. Then they turn fifteen. Who do they rebel against? "Mom and Dad?" Who are they? They rebel against the government. No clone's going into the government, or the army. You know what they're going to do. They'll take over the jobs from the illegal immigrants.

All About Me. Or: Karen's Birthday.

"Gary," I whispered, "do not under any circumstances mention The Lump to your family. It's Karen's birthday, and it's her day."
"Ok."
"Besides, it's just a lump."
"Ok."
"And I don't want them praying and then giving the credit to Jesus when it turns out to be nothing."
"Ok."

Because they would. They believe firmly in allying with Jesus for pre-emptive attacks against Disaster. For example, after her surgery Karen canceled an appointment for an electrician to come and install a ceiling fan because he might "fall through the ceiling, and then there would be dust while [her] lungs were still recovering." But let's say Karen did have the electrician come. While he was there the S_____s would pray fervently that he did not fall through the ceiling, and when he miraculously DID NOT FALL THROUGH THE CEILING, Hallelujah, all glory to God.

The Queen Mom does the same thing, minus the praying. I think she calls it being prepared, but I did not inherit the preparedness gene. Nurture overcame Nature and I adopted the "What Me Worry" gene from Dad. I feel firmly you don't have a problem until you actually have a problem. Might have cancer? Neh. Have cancer? 'Kay, maybe, but not really, until you have cancer a second time. That's when things get rocky. Then you can worry.

At any rate, the S____ family takes their alliance with Jesus very seriously, as evidenced by the fact that Ken over-seeded the lawn because Wilma says it was an embarrassment to the Jesus Sign:

Evidently this is their mezuzah. Plus, it will help Jesus find their house. You know, like the firemen need the house numbers painted on the curb. But really, look at that lawn. You just know Jesus hates that.

Skeleton in the Closet

It amazes me how little Gary knows about his Dad's family. He can report his paternal grandmother was diabetic, both grandparents were 100% German, and all Lutheran.

And sadly, Gary's Uncle Gene has died. Uncle Gene was married to Gary's aunt Bernice, Ken's sister. This is definite. Gary HAS an Aunt Bernice. He HAD an Uncle Gene by marriage. And Ken IS his Dad. From there, things get fuzzy.

So Gary came in and said, "Well, that's sad. Karen says our Uncle Gene died."
I asked, "Is there a funeral?"
"No," Gary said, "He's Mormon and they don't believe in funerals."

I paused a moment, of course, and moved my mouth to see which of the many comments and questions would pop out first. Of course, what popped out was:

"Funeral Potatoes. There's a recipe. Mormons serve it at funerals."
"Hey, you're right!" Gary said.
"And, excuse me, did you say ... Mormon?"
"Yeah! Karen said she was shocked. She had no idea."
Again, so many comments, so little room in my mouth. I ended up saying:
"MOR-mon. You don't maybe mean ... Methodist?"
"Nope."
"Mennonite?"
"No, they even sent his ashes back to ... that big Mormon place."
"Utah?"
"That place in Utah."
"First, Salt Lake City? And second, MORMON?"
"Hey, I'm as shocked as you are. Mormon! Well, I knew Uncle Gene was a really nice man."
"Was your Aunt Bernice Mormon too?"
"No! Dad's family were all Lutherans."
"So, Uncle Gene was a Jack Mormon, one of those so-called 'bad' Mormons."
"Oh, no. He was a minister." (Pause of slow and horrifying revelation.) "...I guess he was a Mormon minister."
Sigh. "Okay. First. She converted because you don't have Mormon ministers with Lutheran wives. Second. He was a MORMON MINISTER and you just now LEARNED about this?"
"Well, maybe I have another aunt with a minister husband. I don't know!"
"Maybe? Seriously, maybe? How can you not know how many sisters you dad has?"
"My dad just doesn't talk about his family, not like my Mom. Wait. Bernice is the one who has a kid. She's my cousin. She's a missionary."
"No! A MORMON missionary? There's a shocker."

So, having pretty well determined that the dearly departed Uncle Gene ("Are you sure his name was really Gene?") is an LDS minister, we started to think what that might mean.

1) We have had Mormons praying for us, since we are blood relations of Mormons.
2) We have abandoned many potential Mormon baby souls in heaven.
3) This explains why I was successful making the Funeral Potatoes on my first try.
4) This explains why Uncle Gene's pants always kind of seemed extra lumpy.

Fun and Games

As I visited the in-laws for Labor Day celebrations (which are of course not ON Labor Day), I kept thinking of the electronic football game we had when I was a kid. There was a metal football field you could plug in which vibrated, and the vibrations made little plastic players move quite randomly across the field.  No player ever (ever ever) made it to the goal line.  Players would vibrate so hard they fell down; two players would always get stuck and do-si-do eternally; and one player would always go off by himself and just vibrate in a circle.

So, like I said. Visited the vibrating in-laws and observed the futile chaos. Good times.

My Dog Has Fleas

So last week I pulled a flea off of Mac. And you know, for every flea you see there are ten fleas you don't see. It's just like mice (and we counted the mouse corpses and this ratio is not approximate).

Of course, I doused Mac with the prescription flea stuff. Fleas dead in twelve hours. Flea fallout is still going on.

1) Gary did not sleep for two nights. I did not sleep until I vacated to the guest room. Gary has been dancing the Dance of The Fantasy Flea. He is "bitten" constantly by the  imaginary creatures.  As if he's having what I think I will call a "Flea-zure." (Yeah, that was mean.) Next time I'm getting some gin and putting it in a bottle marked "Flea Protectant and Exterminator." That's how you treat hypochondriacs, right?

2) On a happier note, we no longer have pillows. Gary can not throw out a pillow (or anything else he's slept with, lucky for me) so he has hoarded every feather pillow since he left his parent's. Pillows as flat as padded manila envelopes. I convinced Gary they were full of fleas. (Give me fleas, I make Flea-monade.)

3) The dog may not necessarily be toted along next time we visit his parents. Wilma and Ken stated proudly that their Nazi dachshund never has fleas. Gary expressed disbelief, and Wilma explained helpfully, "We just give our dogs garlic every meal. It's a miracle."

Gary expressed more disbelief.

"Really!" she said "It's a miracle. I really believe the Lord is protecting our dogs. "

Before Gary asked for some miraculous healing garlic for himself he wanted to make sure. "That's it? Just prayer and garlic?"

Wilma nodded "Yes. Prayer. And garlic. They never have fleas. We only have to give them a flea dip once a month."

See? Garlic! It's miraculous! Really, given that this woman wraps leftovers in Saran Wrap and then puts them in Tupperware the miracle is that the dogs are not always soaking in a flea bath / garlic / holy water marinade.

Birthday Week

When we were first married, one of the many (Many. MA-NY.) things Gary and I had to work through was the birthday issue. My family celebrates one's birthday, remarkably, on the day one was born.  The in-laws like to play around with which day shall be the Feast of the Birthday. The date is not particularly relevant. It doesn't bother me, but it seems that sometimes an entire birthday goes by unacknowledged because the Birthday Observed happened last month.

Back to when we were first married -- I asked Gary to do something. He looked puzzled and said:

"But it's my birthday week."
"Pardon?" I asked, in complete and total disbelief, because I'd been married long enough to guess what was coming.
"It's my birthday week.  I don't have to do anything during my birthday week."

Well, young and foolish, I let him get away with it. Possibly I thought it was another Catholic thing with which I was unfamiliar. At any rate, the next March I again asked Gary to do something. He looked puzzled and said:

"But it's my birthday month."
"Oh, that's a load of crap. Last year it was a week."
"No, really, it's my birthday month. I don't have to do anything during my birthday month."
"Fine, then in August you'd better watch out."

Of course, I forgot until mid-August, but then I played the birthday month tradition as if I were born to it. "No, I can't cook / clean / drive / answer the phone because it is my birthday month."

The S_______s deny any knowledge of this tradition. "Birthday WEEK? Birthday MONTH?" they laugh. It is lucky we didn't have this tradition in my family, since Mom and I generally have our birthdays in the same week.

And speaking of the Queen Mother --  here she is on the Throne:

Nuns! Nuns! Nuns!

First: a geography lesson.

Let's start you in East Saint Louis, Illinois. You are standing on the bank of the Mississippi River and looking West. You are looking at the Arch. You are in great danger because you are in East Saint Louis. (Well you are.) Go west. Swim west, that is. Hurry! Swim faster!

So, now you are under the Arch. Start walking. If you walk west for five miles you are technically no longer in Saint Louis City, because for some odd reason there's a law that Saint Louis City will never get bigger than five miles wide.

Walk west through Saint Louis County for another ten miles and you will see another river, the Missouri River. Cross that river, walk another half mile west and you will be at my house. (Hi. Rest a bit.)

Keep walking for another ten miles and you will leave the suburbs and find yourself in the small town of O'F_____ Missouri. I used to think of it as a suburb, but now that I have attended the 150th anniversary celebration of the birth of O'F______, I know it is a small town. A small Music Man Seventy-Six Trombones We Got Trouble Right Here, Right Here in O'F______ kind of town.

Mr. Wonderful and the other denizens staged a fine theatrical production celebrating O'F_____s 150 years. There was some fine amateur acting during the dramatization of the founding of their fine town including some scary non-apologies on the topics of  Native Americans and slavery ("Who else would have cleared the land?" You, you lazy ass. You and your buddy Dan'l Boone). There was a truly lovely hammer dulcimer solo.

And then, my favorite part:

NUNS SINGING IN GERMAN! They started with "The Happy Wanderer!" Val-de-ri! Val-der-ra! I don't know if this song was originally in German, but they sang it that way. And you know what? It was great. And you know what else? It had nothing to do with O'F________ and its history. But nuns, they gotta sing.

South Asian Non-Terrorist

Well, the visit of the niece and nephew was punctuated by some War Fallout.

Arhan-fay and Arzaana-fay were walking with us in the mall, and a family walked past us in the other direction, led by a pot-bellied man. As he passed, I saw my niece's head whip around and her jaw dropped open, and my nephew snorted and shook his head. I heard nothing, probably since the man's comment of :

"F*cking raghead"

... was directed at my nephew. I was pretty surprised Arhan-fay didn't go after the guy. Since 9/11 he's gotten used to people yelling "Go back to where you came from," which of course is North Saint Louis County. After I heard, my hackles got all raised and I stared down anyone that even glanced at the kids for the rest of the night.

What I also find remarkable is that we are re-living the December 1941 issue of Life Magazine, the one with "How to tell Japs From the Chinese." My nephew and niece's father is from Pakistan (our ally), which they explain is in South Asia, not the Middle East. I confess, if I hadn't spent a day at their Muslim school in which they pointed out students by nationality ("She's from Egypt...He's Saudi...She's Iranian") I wouldn't have been able to tell much difference.  Now it seems obvious, though.

That distinction didn't do Arhan-fay much good when he was waiting at the train station to head back to Kansas City. A woman buying a ticket didn't have the requisite driver's license, and the volunteer behind the desk was stupid enough to say, "Oh, you don't need that. We only ask for that if you look like an Iraqi terrorist."

I wasn't there. Aunt Karen was there. She reported loud and repetitive use of the f-bomb by our nephew. She was so Shocked and Awed she had to wait in the car. I really wanted to get details, but she refuses to discuss it further.

What a Difference Six Months Makes

Is Six Months Like 10 years in Teenage Years?
The niece before:

The Niece After:

 

In Which Things Continue to Be Lost and Then (Sometimes) Found.

The miraculous vacation just keeps getting more and more miraculous!

Miracle #5: Arzaana-fay bought shoes, which I believe I left at the Border's during the Harry Potter birthday celebration. (She is never too old for Harry Potter, evidently.) Then we shopped at other stores, went home, cleaned up, and then tried to put on the new shoes which were evidently now lost. A few phone calls to all the stores we visited later and they were located at the Borders.

Miracle #6: A quote from Arzaana-fay before the birthday celebration:
"I brought a lot of presents from Mom, but you are totally going to know which present I bought you."
From Arzaana-fay during the birthday celebration as I opened every gift:
"That isn't the one I got you."
Luckily I didn't have to be told when I opened the silver guitar earrings that THAT was the gift she got me. Very cute. Very sad when she pointed out as we were leaving for dinner hours later that I appeared to only have one now.
"It's in the house somewhere." I said. "Let's go out to dinner and we won't worry until after I've searched for two hours when we get back home, because nothings really lost until you've searched for two hours."

Of course it was the first thing I saw on the garage floor when we pulled back in after dinner.

Miracle #4

Add another miracle of things Lost and Then Regained:

After Nine Days, the Queen Mother is back in her quarters. Raise the flag! The electric power is back.

Vacation Update

It is the miraculous vacation!

Day 1 / Miracle 1: I put my debit card and driver's license in my jeans pocket before we started pedaling the paddleboats in Forest Park. After an hour, I got out of the paddleboat with no debit card and driver's license. A paddleboat isn't very big so after a short search I gave up. We were almost back at the car and I was still patting myself down and noticed an odd protrusion under my belt. I had pedaled the debit card out of my pocket, under my shirt (which was not tucked in but still finished off with a cunning belt to hide my muffin top) and it had embossed itself into the hot sweaty flesh under my belt. I checked my armpits but the driver's license was not to be found.

Day 2 / Miracle 2: Arzaana-fay and I were out shopping and she found purses for $2.00, so she bought three. (Oh, and many tops in blindingly glorious jewel tones.) Four hours in I was sitting down because I wore the wrong shoes. I asked where the bag with the purses was. Horror. No idea. Another loss. Happily, as we retraced our steps the woman who had helped us at Earth Wind and Bead saw us come in and lifted the bag and waved. Another miraculous recovery.

Day 3 / Miracle 3: Arzaana-fay couldn't find her mother's credit card, given to her for emergencies. Evidently my debit card had talked with Sandy's credit card and told it the joys to be found outside of the wallet. We looked everywhere except for the bag holding my birthday presents. Finally I dove in and it was hiding there. Oh, course, I presented it to Arzaana-fay attached to my ribs.

                        

On Day 2 we also saw the Lady In The Water. Our reviews ranged from "Enh - okay" to "Waste of time" to "Horrendous! Just - Gaaaaaah!". (That was Gary.) They lost me at the word "Narf."

   

On Day 3 we took what is now evidently our annual pilgrimage to the parking lot at Six Flags when we decide it is bad weather, then we leave. The we go to Lone Elk Park, as tradition dictates, and we saw bison family: Dad, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, and three babies. We took two trips around the park and on the first lap we played "Buffalo Soldiers" to the bison and, I swear to you, they began bobbing their heads in time to Bob Marley. On the second lap the Momma Bison urinated directly on her baby bison. Kind of weird.

Oh, and Mom is still here, hanging in there, and we are all kind of pissed that Ameren Electric has exiled her now for over a week. Off with their heads.

Power Issues

I have power, I always had power, and I share my power with others. The power has not gone off at my house, regardless of what you may have heard on CNN and NPR. If the President hadn't visited the NAACP the St. Louis power outage would have been the #1 story of the day.

Of course, I do not have:
Half the Elm tree I had before
$250 insurance deductible

I do have :
The life I risked driving through the storm that only comes once a century, in which the wind bloweth North to South, not West to East.
Insurance to pay the $1800 bill to take the limb off the roof.
An $1800 estimate on taking down the other half of the Elm tree.
Almost enough money in the savings to pay for that.
Credit.
A reasonable Mom who came to my house last night when her power went out so the National Guard will not have to wrestle her to the ground.
A sane husband, even though he comes from a family of lunatics. Oh! Let's talk about the lunatics. Shall we? I believe we shall.

Karen and Mr. Wonderful also have power, and when she heard this morning my in-laws were without power she started a nagging and browbeating campaign to get them out to her house. As it turns out, the water in both our parent's neighborhoods was contaminated by some power-related issue, and the in-laws had no water to drink in the 101 degree heat. Eventually they caved, packed up the Nazi dog, and Mr. Wonderful drove them to the House of Wonderful and plunked them down in front of an air conditioning vent.

Then the S______s realized they had left behind a freezer full of meat.

The meat was lying helpless, sweating and uncomfortable, getting warmer and warmer, more and more microbial. Gary was commissioned to go rescue the meat. He raced to his parents where he expected to see hot sweaty cranky steaks pounding on the door of the freezer. He called his parents.

"I came here to save this stuff? Chicken breasts? Hamburger?"
"But the pork chops? How are they?"
"If they weren't in the freezer, they are gone, Mom. Everything in the fridge is room temperature. I had to abandon the pork chops." (Much wailing from Wilma.)

The S______s mourned the loss of the pork chops quietly until Gary got a call at 6:20.

"Gary!" Wilma insisted, "You have to drive us home right now. Our power is back."
"But there still is no water. Besides, wouldn't you want [Mr. Wonderful] to drive you back in the Cadillac?"
"No, he has a reality show he has to watch, and he can't watch it and get us home by seven."
"Why do you have to be home by seven?"
"The National Weather Service says there's going to be another thunderstorm between seven and ten."
"I think that's just a thunderstorm watch, Mom. I don't think it means there's a thunderstorm starting at seven on the dot."
"Well, there might be one, and so you have to drive us home and get back to your house by seven." (This would be fine if we didn't live 22 miles away from them. Well, and if they were capable of saying goodbye without ten minutes of hugs and kisses and don't forget and blowing kisses and I could go on.)

Gary replied he did not have the keys to his magic plane and he would be unable to transport them to their house and get back before The Storm was scheduled to begin at seven, so they would have to put up with their daughter bossing them another night. He hung up and looked at my mom as if to say "my parents are crazy." And then he said "My parents are crazy."

My Supremely Rational Mom of course is going to spend the night here, and she told him she might never leave, just to scare him. Cackle!

Impending Niece Visit

Two weeks and one day until my niece Arzaana-fay visits from KC. Technically, she's my niece-in-law. And technically, the visitor will be the 16-year old version of Arzaana-fay.  Based on recent phone calls I may not recognize her.

Arzaana-fay last January looked like this:

She was at the grandparent's, so she swapped the nose ring for the stud, but she was wearing both the Bettie Page necklace and the Ahnk (symbol to the in-laws that Arzaana-fay now must be following an Egyptian pagan religion).

Oh, and the shirt? Black. Lipstick? Black. Pants? Black. Underwear? Black. I know, because since because I am the accepting aunt who hears all the dark secrets, I am also the aunt who will buy her the dark clothes she likes.

So on this phone call, I asked "Are we going shopping? Do you have enough clothes now that you lost 30 pounds?"
"Ohhhh...you haven't seen me since January, have you?" she asked.
"Oh no - you're anorexic now?" (Because this would be the next dark secret. I have studied up in anticipation for it.)
"No. I wear colors now! And my fingernails are grown out and they're pink. And I'm growing out my black hair and going back to my natural color." (I thought back and remembered the natural color was brown when she was 13.)
"Who are you? What have you done with Arzaana-fay?" I panicked.
She laughed, "I just think maybe I was going through a bad phase and I didn't feel good about myself."
I am the cool aunt, so I didn't say "You THINK?" which seems to be the universal response when I quote this interchange to others. And I am the aunt who keeps the secrets, so I'm not supposed to tell the in-laws about the colorful clothing. (She wants it to be a surprise.)

So it appears my reign as agony aunt is over, since she has turned her life around with a lot of hard work on her part. I'm so happy she's no longer in such emotional pain.  Two summers ago she was the half-caste daughter of an emotionally vulnerable Mom in a restrictive Muslim school, now she's the exotic young lady in the Drama magnet school she applied to on her own, auditioned for, and will attend in the fall. And you know what's totally cool? She's proud of herself.

But it is an adjustment. She shot down the Vans Warped Tour; I'm thinking she might want to have a Spa Day instead. Now that she's dressing in colors (so confusing), I suppose the next thing is that she will become more and more (sigh) like my in-laws.   As it should be.

Memorial Day Observed at the In-Laws

Shall I start with the conversation I had with Gary on the drive to the In-Laws? We were talking about the Kathy Griffin special in which she discusses "vagina drop." Gary said:

"At times ... as I have been doing my research on the Internet, I sometimes come across images of vaginas.  I think some might be droopy. But you can't tell unless the woman is shaved."
"And what is up with that?" I asked, "What is that for? Is it for...navigation? Or do men want the woman to look pre-pubescent?"
"I think those women are just very committed swimmers. Shaving makes you swim faster, and if you're competitive, well, every second helps."
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Then at the In-laws, Karen came in from the bathroom and exclaimed "MOM. Have you run out of Holy Water again?"

The S______s are not only Catholic, they are Charismatic Catholics, and I didn't even know those existed, but they do. Speaking in tongues, and miraculous healings with Holy Oil, and visions. Really no crazier than any other religion, of course.

Wilma and Ken therefore have Holy Water in little fonts on the walls screwed in next to all the light switches in every room. So you can anoint yourself whenever. So I figured they were overindulging and had run out. No, Wilma said, they were worried mosquitoes would breed in it. In the house. In the Holy Water. And you know, mosquitoes carry West Nile virus. And the birds aren't going to be eating the mosquitoes because they'll all be dead from the flu.
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Then, during the polite luncheon conversation Gary said he had been ridiculed by his friends at work for not washing his pants every time he wore them.

Karen gasped, "Oh I do! You don't wash your pants? That's disgusting." (Then she belched. I do not lie.)
Gary defended himself. "Well I wash my underwear every time! Do you wash your underwear every time?"
"Yes" she stammered. "When I wear it."

Forks dropped.

Well, Gary and my forks dropped. The elder In-Laws, Karen, and Mr. Wonderful continued eating.
"GGAAAAAAHHH!" Gary screamed.
Karen pointed out, "Well, neither does [Mr. Wonderful]"
"GGAAAAAAHHH!"
I turned away. "I can't look at you two ever again." I turned back. "No. I can only picture you naked now."
Karen left the room, and Mr. Wonderful leaned in and whispered, "She doesn't wear a bra either."
"GGAAAAAAHHH!"
"Gary, were we talking to you?" I inquired politely.
"Mom!" Gary screamed, "Make them stop!"

We did stop, and Karen returned to the room (I checked her out, no bra. At least no bra that had a strap in the back; I didn't grope her, if that's what you're thinking.) The conversation continued on a calmer track. For at least two or three minutes.

Then I asked Wilma: "You wear underwear, don't you?"
"Well, now I do!" she said, alarmed. I didn't say a word, but she went on entirely without prodding and volunteered, "It's hot running back and forth to that barbecue outside! But I put it on when I knew people were coming over."
"GGAAAAAAHHH!GGAAAAAAHHH!"
"Ken?" I asked. "How about you?"
"GGAAAAAAHHH! Don't answer her, Dad!"
He didn't answer me because