Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Deluge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack. And the downpour started.

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

Space News

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

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

"NO! Moon Missions! New!"

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

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

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

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

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

Sleepshopping

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

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

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

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

And maybe a pony.

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

* Robert Bresson, French film director.

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

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

"Scribble Penis" by the Artist Michelangelo

and

"Stylized Penis" by the Artist Michelangelo

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

GNO Report From, Yes, Almost 48 Hours Ago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Steeeeeeeeveeeen" I sighed.

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

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

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

We had just gotten it to work.

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

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

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

Bottom, or Nearabouts

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

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

LEGEND: Drunk Sober

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

Purple Haze through a straw makes you:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Google-Climbing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, finally ...

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

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

Butterfly Party at My House

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

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

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

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

Weird Hello, Weird Goodbye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aww. What happened?

"Carpal tunnel," he flatly announced.

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

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

"Your Mom is an amazing woman."

"Yes she was"

"And so are you."

"... Aw, sweet baby."

"Excuse me?"

"NO! No! That was for Gary!"

"Gary?"

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

So, I've got misunderstandings coming and going.

Living History

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Best Cookies

Gary was coming down with a cold this weekend. In fact, it was the cold I got a month ago. I felt such pity for him I made him oatmeal raisin cookies sans nuts. 

Now, the oatmeal raisin cookies are my specialty cookies, but the last few times I've made them they disappointed. This time the butter was unsalted and throwing extra salt to compensate didn't work.

Then we didn't eat them all hot and chewy out of the oven, so the next morning we had a plate adhered to a humid glommed-up cookie pile.

So, what would you do? Poor baby needs cookies. I peeled the cookies apart and fried them. I grilled those babies like a cheese sandwich. Little butter in the pan, layer of cookies in the pan, saute them over easy, there you go.

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

Oh. Tangentially. "Easy" off the Cowboy Mouth "Easy" album is going on the Clinical Depression playlist. Check it out here.

I Would Do That

If I were a male celebrity I would be Richard Quest, CNN reporter, Not because he affects the "lively" air when he's reporting on the royal family and the serious air when he's anchoring on CNN International. I would be Richard Quest, because he was arrested in Central Park and found to have a sex toy tucked in his boot and an apparently unrelated rope tying his neck to his genitals.

I would so do that. I would do that if I were a man.

I would also do what Dick Cavett wrote about in his autobiography. He put his penis in the hose attachment and turned the vacuum on. (And promptly peed all over the rug.) I'd do that in a heartbeat. Household appliances are fair game. Who among us has not had an intimate relationship with the washer and the spin cycle, or its cousin, the dryer, if there was sufficient time?

You know what else I would do? This isn't sexual, but if I were a woman running for president, I would say something like "My husband did not wrap up the nomination in 1992 until he won the California primary somewhere in the middle of June, right? We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California. You know I just, I don't understand it." I would so totally say that. And then Keith Olbermann would break his pencil and yell at me for even daring to refer to an assassination during this of all primary seasons. I would make the mistake of not punching the word "June." 

Plus, I would so totally have sex in the Oval Office with an intern if I got in.

Secrets: Still holding at 1.

Today was the day we signed up for the next BNL cruise. Specifically, I was scheduled to sign up at 2:00 Central time. I couldn't sign up at work because TeddyJ has us locked in to the Amish Internet. (For example, you can't get to this very blog. Prudes! My boss explained they look for certain words and lock out that content. I assumed they looked for "finance" or "trade" or "stock," and then realized my chances of signing up for the "Barenaked" Ladies cruise from work were low.)

So, I asked to work from home this afternoon, but instead of following my usual practice I didn't give a reason. I just said there was something I had to do at home.

What do we call that? A Secret.

I knew I probably could tell the new people at work about the cruise, but THEN I'd have to keep a secret about the naked photo. And given that Friend #3 and I were having lunch with our Big Boss, who was raised in India, it was even more key that I keep quiet about the cruise I was signing up for. From home. In secret. How do we react to secrets? We spill a different secret to maintain the Secret Brain Balance.

I did pretty well until the drive back from lunch when we were discussing cars. I suddenly said, "Oh. You know what my car has? A seat warmer. The first time I was in a car with seat warmers I didn't know what they were and the drive turned on the seat warmer and I didn't know and I thought I'd wet my pants."

So. At least they don't know I left work to get on a taboo web site and sign up to be naked.

Freaky Stuff in My House

Wee roses in bloom! "Prune us!" they scream in teeny fairy voices. "EEEee! Prune us!"

"A few must die so weeee allll cann liiiiiive!"

As the butterfly larvae watch from the ledge.

"HAI. WE ARE IN YER HOUSE, GROSSIN OUT YER HUSBAND. NOM. NOM! NOM! ... EW, I JUST ATE ONE OF MY OWN TURDS. NOMNOM."

While Judiblu's art watches worried from the hall. Especially the violet blue guy. He's all freaked out.

Dinosaurs, Revealed

Thank God for CNN never letting a story die.

Dinosaur Sighting #1:

Yesterday, CNN had a choice. It was Breaking News: Hydrochloric acid is seeping into Louisiana versus Breaking News: Teddy Kennedy had a stroke. They went with the stroke. Not true, of course, just a seizure.

Dinosaur Sighting #2:

Dave called a few hours later. I answered and said, "Yeah, yeah, Teddy Kennedy had a seizure, not a stroke," because Dave habitually calls me when dead celebrities are in the news and screams, "HEATH LEDGER! DEAD!" or "BRAD RENFRO! DEAD!" so I was expecting "KENNEDY! ALMOST DEAD!" yet Dave hadn't known anything about a stroke or seizure.

Instead, Dave was calling to tell me the "modern" version of The Andromeda Strain would be on TV Memorial Day. For a long time that had been one of our favorite movies. Then I got involved with Gary and discovered that Michael Crichton, the writer of the book, has some sick hatred of people with epilepsy, including, I suppose, Gary.

The first book I know of that cast people with epilepsy was The Andromeda Strain. (I like the term people with epilepsy, or you may say "epileptics," if your prefer the antiquated term, or "people with a seizure disorder," if you prefer the modern term.) If you recall [SPOILER ALERT] the lab almost self-destructs at the climax of the book and movie because one of those damn epileptics hid his condition instead of being drowned in a bag at birth, I suppose, and has a photo-sensitive seizure from the flashing alarm lights.

Then, he went off and wrote a hateful book called The Terminal Man (also a movie starring the still adorable George Segal). This novel focuses on a man with complex-partial seizures. This type of seizure doesn't result in decreased consciousness, like the convulsive seizure everyone thinks of, instead the person does erratic actions. Gary, for example, hops on one foot, says repetitive phrases, and tries to shave with his blow dryer (luckily, not vice-versa). The "terminal" man murders people, and that bastard M.C. backed it up with a footnote. A completely false footnote, or if nothing else, a questionable footnote in which someone with epilepsy threw a baby down a well and used epilepsy as his defense.

When I worked at the local Epilepsy Federation the director told me the national chapter had just won a suit against him for a one million dollar donation, plus M.C. had to write a grudging, childish, petty, pouty addendum to the paperback copy, which is so boring you can hardly believe he wrote it.

As a further proof that the Epilepsy Federation won, there are no dinosaurs with epilepsy in Jurassic Park. It seems our only epileptic dinosaur is Teddy Kennedy.

Dinosaurs

Okay. Last night I had a post in my head. It was about dinosaurs.

You won't be reading that post. Because I went to bed. Without writing it. And now I don't remember a word of it. It wasn't about dinosaurs as much as it just had several references to dinosaurs to pull it together.

I remember thinking last night about mummies, and wondering if there's an internment ceremony when museums display mummies, but that wasn't dinosaur-related. And last night I watched the Indiana Jones movie with James Bond. There were no dinosaurs in that, though. I did a search on "dinosaur" to see if I had posted it before. Evidently not. I must have left a comment on someone else's blog about the freaking dinosaurs.

I know I've mentioned (somewhere) that when I would drive with my grandmother in South Saint Louis County where the highway is channeled through the foothills and shows the strata in the rocks, she would say "That's how you can tell the dinosaurs were here." And of course I assumed they built the highway into the channel that the dinosaur tails had left behind.

But that wasn't it, either.

It's like Kublai Khan, only backwards.

In Which I Am Told I Need to Think or Shut Up

A few weeks ago, I was at work but I needed to make some phone calls between nine and four.  Because a number of government agencies needed to know Mom was dead. After a few days of playing with words ("dead," "passed on," "passed away," "not with us, if you know what I mean," back to "dead,") I became more and more conscious of the thought bubbles of condemnation floating over the tops of the cube walls. Did I sound too sad? Too matter-of-fact? It's a lot of calls, even if you don't actually say "dead." At any rate, knowing the liberal policy TeddyJ has about working from home, I wanted to ask my Team Leader (TeddyJ has no bosses, we're groovy like that) if I could work from home. so that I didn't disrupt my co-workers with the "Uh, I need to report a death /passing / deceasement" routine.

What did I do? I walked up to my Team Leader and said "I want to go home so I can make some personal phone calls. During work hours."

After a little re-phrasing she was cool with it.

Yet even still, today, when I printed out three hundred pages of Powerpoint presentations and white papers, I began to read and got distracted by every little thing. So of course out of the blue I asked the same Team Leader, "Would it be okay if I just go home and read?"

She said I really need to work on how I phrase these things.

Steak

Gary and I were at the grocery Saturday night, when I said, "I want to cook you something, like a roast or a steak." He just screamed like a girl at the idea of the roast. (I can only imagine all fights between his parents stemmed from food: too much for the freezer, how hard it is too make, because when I warn him I'll be making some he protests. When I make it he's happy.)

So, that's why I bought two porterhouse steaks and made them when he was walking the dog today. I had to do it then, since he invariably bursts into the kitchen screaming "Something is BURNING!" when I heat up the oven or stove. I didn't want to grill the steaks because it was perfect catch-a-cold weather, and I am still sleeping off a cold. I opened up "How to Cook Everything," my big yellow cookbook friend, compiled by a vegetarian, which still explains how to cook up cow muscles indoors.

I wanted a second opinion, went to the internet, and found a fine explanation on Everything.com.

An excerpt:
"A properly cut, aged, and prepared porterhouse, IMNSHO, is the best steak. PERIOD. People whine and whimper, 'Oh, what about the filet mingon? Or the top sirloin?' These people are freaking idiots and should NOT, under ANY circumstances, be allowed near any proper steakhouse, BBQ, charcoal pit, or any other symbol (real or imagined) of elevated carnivorous behavior. A steak isn't a little sliver of beef wrapped in bacon and presented on a white plate with a sprig of some sort of pretentious green matter, as if you just happened to bring your pet rabbit along to eat a large, hoofed mammal with you. A steak, and your experiences enjoying it, should invoke memories of roasting animals over an open fire with your fellow hunters. IF THIS MEANS YOU AND YOU'VE TAKEN OFFENSE, STOP READING THIS RIGHT FUCKING NOW!! You do not have the qualifications to view the following, and your eyes will melt out of your skull if you proceed, leaving you with useless sockets of dessicated carbon."

I still went ahead and pan-broiled the steak like a wuss,  but I enjoyed the Everything.com explanation best. And it tasted fine, even without the open fire.

This is Great News

An excerpt from this news story:

"Researchers have known for some time that fat that collects in the abdomen -- known as visceral fat -- can raise a person's risk of diabetes and heart disease, while people with pear-shaped bodies, with fat deposits in the buttocks and hips, are less prone to these disorders."

Also, we can booty-pop, unlike some African-American women of our acquaintance. This is really pissing off Friend #7.

"White girls can booty-pop. Why can't I booty-pop?"

The Fog

The weather was beautiful last weekend. I suffer greatly from my own strain of Spring Fever: when it's an absolutely gorgeous day I am filled with guilt and inadequacy. "Look at this," I think, "The grass is that luminous spring green. The sky is perfect. The world is all beauty, why aren't you doing your part? Why aren't you creating more beauty in the world?" It's the same feeling I get in the art museum. "You're just a beauty-user."

Understandably, I feel less pressured by bad weather. Love the rain, even the drizzle. Of all, my favorite is fog.

About 22 years ago there was an epic fog in the Saint Louis area. And, even better, it was a night fog. Gary and I were out buying crystal for a friend's wedding, and we'd driven out to an outlet mall 40 miles west of Saint Louis. (See, children, back before there was the Internet, we had to drive places to buy things.) We drove home disappointed.

On the way home, the fog hit. Driving stopped. You could see only the taillights of the car parked on the shoulder directly in front of you. It was a situation that equalized all cars. SUVs and trucks had no advantage over our eensy Honda CRX.

After an hour of the incapacitating fog, Gary and I got a little impatient, because there was a wedding to attend the next day and the crystal was still not in hand. We had already noticed the only thing visible for miles: the big glowing sign for "Mid-Rivers Mall." So we pulled back out to where we thought the highway might still be, then crept along the exit and across the parking lot to the big glowing "Famous-Barr" sign.

None of the crystal we needed at Famous, either, so we headed out to the mall -- except we couldn't find the exit to the mall.  We  followed the wall on the first floor, then we thought to ask someone.

"How do we get out to the mall?" we asked, embarrassed.

"The mall?" said the perfume lady.

"Yes."

"I don't understand."

(Brief moment to evaluate the language skills of the perfume lady.) "The mall. We've walked all around and can't see how to get out to the mall."

"What mall?"

(Brief moment to evaluate the drug addictions of the perfume lady.)  "This mall. Mid-Rivers mall."

"This is the mall." (pause) " There is no mall."

It reminded me of that Lost in Space episode when Dr. Smith takes the elevator up to the second floor of their spaceship in the parallel universe or something, and he comes back down all ashen-faced and intones, "There is no second floor."

Come to find out, ha ha, we had crept through the minimal parking lot past the massive construction equipment to the fully-finished Famous which was not attached to anything, yet. Sure, there was a sign.  Two points determine a line, and it appears one store determines a mall. About a year later, they finished the mall and had a grand opening.

So, fog. My favorite.

Look! You Got Monkeys Yesterday. Today You Get Snot.

Updated: I woke up today and thought, "Look! You Got Ejaculate Yesterday, Today You Got Snot." Sorry for the delay, but I'm snot-stupid.

My head is full of snot. So full that I have taken to putting a towel on the bed and laying the most snot-filled nostril on it and just letting my nose drain directly on to the towel. This as I breathe through my gaping mouth and moan as I exhale. *inhale* "ooOOOooooaaaannnnnhh." *inhale* "uuuuUUUUnnnnnhhhhhhh." *inhale*

Am I the only one who does this: I find great comfort in making the inside of my bottom lip as dry as possible when I've been mouth-breathing for a while.

My only real comfort is work. I have been doing all the brainless work-projects on my plate today.  And, I've been watching the election intently. Barack congratulated Hillary on winning Indiana, Hillary was gracious about winning Indiana, and the MSNBC people are still insisting it's too close to call. I think this might make sense if it could get past all the snot.

Wattle Watch '08: Stress Wattle

The wattle in retreat:

Another Downside to Hospice

Since you get the grieving out of the way before your loved one dies, you find yourself recovering far sooner than is appropriate. For example:

1. I went back to work Monday. I'm sure there's some prig saying "Heartless cow" behind my back. But, of course, screw him or her. I mean, that prig isn't going to keep me at home, but I know this is a prime opportunity for people to participate in competitive mourning.

2. I got back on a message board and someone wrote, "what are you doing here?"  This person wasn't being priggish, but it did make me wonder when I'm "supposed" to be indulging in frivolities again. I know it will get worse later, but right now, I'm in the eye of the hurricane. I estimate I've got about a month before I start falling apart again. I should lay low out of respect for Mom, maybe.

3. Because Dave is in town this week, we're trying to tie up the few, the very few, loose ends Mom left. We need to call the lawyer, and since TeddyJ gives me free brokerage services (tedDY! tedDY!), we saw the broker about rearranging the monies so that Dave isn't eating cat food. I know that broker was thinking, "Their mother just died less than a week ago, and here they are, cashing in."

4. I didn't even look at the broker when Dave and I had this exchange:

Dave: "Shut up."

Me: "You shut up. Be nice to me. I'll put you in hospice."

David: (pokes me)

Me: "I'll go all hospice on your ass."

Scattered ... Shiroobie ... Scattered, Scattered

This Week In Anderson Cooper

Oh, my poor baby Anderson. Here I am trapped with a man who has been wiped out by a cold, while heroic Anderson Cooper is all blase about having his face sliced open because he is a skin cancer survivor. Check him out!

"On a personal note, I’ve been off for the last couple of days. I had minor surgery on Monday. A small spot of skin cancer was removed from under my left eye. I hadn’t planned on mentioning this, but I still have stitches and you’ll no doubt notice them tonight. Don’t want you to think I got into a fist fight with Charlie Rose."

"I hadn't planned on mentioning it." Self-restraint. Discretion. How hot is that?

Evidently I am not the only woman not dissuaded  that AC goes AC and DC. (And probably 360.) Jammies brought this excellent post to my attention, from a blogger on the train with the man himself.

Treatment

It is just remarkable, the ability to focus on the positive. Solomon has a whole blog devoted to positive thoughts. I myself have taken advantage of the placebo effect. Mom used the Gypsy Curse on me to great effect when I was young.  If you don't know, the curse is performed with this incantation:

"The curse is cast. The curse is subtle. Pay close attention to your enemy. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually you will notice a pattern of bad luck. She will drop her tray in the lunchroom. She will forget her homework. Soon you will notice nothing else."

And now there's this: if you are an amputee and have phantom pain, you can trick yourself into thinking someone is massaging your phantom leg. And it feels good.

Just Exactly How Scattered, You Ask?

Yesterday, I saw the right turn only sign on Manchester, and thought, "But the mall's on the left. Oh, screw that sign. That's not for ME." I thought it was remarkable how deserted the street was as I made a wide left turn into the far right lane. I drove about half a block when two police cars swung in from the left and screeched to a halt in front of me. "Damn!" I thought as they vaulted out of their cars and ran toward me, "they caught me making that illegal left turn." I was starting to reach for my license and registration when I heard them roar, "Ma'am! You are Going the Wrong WAY!"

And so I was. Look, that's a very wide road. I could well have been in the correct lane, and I would have, if I'd seen anyone else around me. And if I'd jumped the concrete barrier.

Anyway, instead of ticketing me, they stopped traffic, let me loop around the right way, and followed me until I'd straightened myself out. I'm going back there tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.

On the Other Hand

I took me two days and digging out vestigial memories of "CHKDSK /V/F," but I got Vista out of its interminable Repair Loop. ("This Repair May Restart Several Times." No shit.)

So, at times my brain has laser focus.

A Day of Musical Milestones

I can tell the music fervor that ambushed me November 2006 (and resulted in my taking up the guitar the next December) truly is a result of brain damage. Because it hasn't stopped. Every other hobby stops, but this music thing keeps going. (And incidentally, even though the neurologist dismissed it, the guitar-playing is in my file. Just in case the symptoms someday are "heat sensitivity," "parasthesias," "helpless attempts to play guitar.")

So, today was a big day in my musical life.

Today In Music

In Which I Begin to Learn to Read
I got my copy of The Folksong Fake Book and looked immediately for Kevin Barry, one of my favorite Pete Seeger folksongs. I have fond memories of being ten, planting my feet apart and challenging the Crown to shoot me like an Irish Soldier. (Do not hang me like a dog.) But ironically it seems The Folksong Fake Book assumes I know how to read music! It does not tell me where to put my fingers! Like I know this! Come on! Get real.

So, the Big Milestone was that I mapped out what every note of Kevin Barry was on the scale, and then found where they were on the guitar. It only took three attempts but I worked out the first two lines of Kevin Barry. Perhaps tomorrow I'll have the other two lines. And perhaps someday I can look at the notes and just play it. I'm just paying my rent every day in the Tower of Song.

In Which I Am Tragically Disappointed
Yeah, Leonard Cohen was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame yesterday, then today by some remarkable coincidence he announced he's going on tour! ON TOUR! Maybe with Leonard Cohen '08 Tour T-Shirts! Squee! I immediately linked to the tour list:

Toronto CA - Okay, well, he's Canadian, that makes sense.
Dublin IR - Whoa. Ireland. Well, he can visit there, as long as he swings by Saint Louis on the way back to Canada.
Manchester UK - Well, since he's there.
Montreal QC followed by Glastonbury Scotland - This does not look good. I'm thinking Leonard won't be visiting Saint Louis.

Then Norway, Sweden,  Denmark, Switzerland, France, and Bennicam ESP, and I don't even KNOW where ESP is, much less Bennicam.

Then he winds up in Athens...Greece. Damn. For a moment I thought it might be Athens Georgia. Pah. So, no chance to see Leonard Cohen Live. Well, with credit cards all things are possible, but the man at least could drop by.

In Which I Indulge in Another of My Musical Hobbies
Is it a matter of pride among artists to misspell their own lyrics?

Carbon Leaf
Desperation Song
"I'm turing it from shade to light"

T-u-r-i-n-g. I think I might have to stop reading lyrics. Is there some underground code of bands that they don't have true band cred unless they have a typo? Or, more believably, this is probably like the riders that bands have that  require the venue to remove all the brown M&Ms from the backstage M&M bowl. They want to see if we're paying attention.

In Which I Share my Winter Storm Story

I say to People in Saint Louis: Pretty bad snow, Tuesday, huh? Remember when it was 70 degrees last weekend? Crazy.

I say to People Everywhere Else: All of Saint Louis Almost DIED Tuesday! It was a 100-year blizzard! For some reason, CNN cared more about covering the Primaries than covering the near-death experiences of Everyone in Saint Louis!

Tuesday
4:30 am. Dog alerts me that it's sleeting outside. "Crunchy sleet," I think, "Good for traction."

9:30 am. Mom and I drive to her physical therapist for a half-four session. On the way there it begins to snow, meaning I turn the corner at Ladue and Lindbergh and drive into a whiteout. "Blizzard conditions," Mom intones ominously. I remember Mom's cataracts probably mean it looks worse to her than it is.

10:00 am. We wade through the ankle-high snow that accumulated in the last half hour. Mom says, "Take Lindbergh, it will be safer." (I pause as Saint Louisans laugh hollowly.)

10:01 am-12:15 pm. We drive twenty minutes north on Lindbergh for the next two hours.

First, I applied the brakes at the first stoplight. The car did not stop, instead the brakes just had their little ABS seizures while sliding across the 2 car lengths I kept in front of me. I noticed the Dynamic Stability Control light had not gone off.

"Mom, feel that vibration? That's that Dynamic Stability Control we got," I fibbed cheerfully. I pointed at where the light was supposed to be. "You just missed seeing the light," I lied to my cataract-blind mother.

"Stop looking at that light. Watch the road."

For a while there we crawled through the snow, to slow to even skid on the ice when we stopped. Then at Lindbergh and Saint Charles Rock Road we watched two cars try in vain to get up an icy hill.  People tried to push; people almost died. The Pageant of Human Life unfolded before our eyes. Well, my eyes, Mom kept her eyes closed. We stayed in the car. I decided I would eat Mom if I had to. Eventually a Dept of Transportation truck showed up, and the driver pushed the two cars up the icy hill. Then he looked at me. "Just don't stop," he recommended. I put the Mini in first and gunned it.

I did feel a little self-conscious when it had been four minutes of me gunning it up a twelve-foot incline, but I didn't stop, and I made it over the hill.

And given that every snowplow in Saint Louis was probably stuck behind me, and the two stuck cars in front had long gone, I found myself as the lone car on Lindbergh. Lindbergh was white, the air was white, the horizon was white. It was a whiteout and I could not see. I had to turn on the GPS and drive the car like I was in a video game. I stared at the tiny screen and kept the little blue arrow positioned over the yellow alleged Lindbergh line.

Mom (again, blind) convinced me to stay on Lindbergh (allegedly) because then we'd hit the 100 foot snow-free tunnel under the airport.

Eventually (12:15 pm) we get back to Mom's. I called Gary to warn him to stay at work.

12:16 pm. Gary leaves work.

Every fifteen minutes Gary calls to complain about the lack of plows and the BASTARDS who are blocking the ramps and the injustice that makes people go East on Page and then backtrack West on Page and THINK they can get in front of him unfairly and No they WILL NOT be allowed in Front Of Him. Or, to summarize: Bastards.

Oh, and as a coda: The Cataract Surgery Center called to say they can't do Mom's surgery the next day, because her breathing needs the close monitoring you'd get at a hospital. Bah.

Postscript: Gary got home at 5:30 pm. I stayed at Mom's and then got home at 9:30 pm.

So that was my Winter Storm Story.

Wattle Watch '08

This week's wattle:

Smaller? A bit.

In Which I Am So Screwed

I'm not a people person. At one of my reviews at Ye Olde Company I was reproved for not going about the office and saying "Hi" to others. Well, and not saying "Bye." Oh, and not saying, "How was your weekend?"

Well. One of the hazards of working for a small company, right? TeddyJ wouldn't be like that. I could be a cold cog in the wheels of corporate America, put my head down, do my job, y'all just assume my weekend was fine, okay?

As it turns out, why, no, it seems I have to care. This past week I had to attend Customer/Co-worker Service class,  which was devoted to making me a warm and caring person. One classmate even said that working at TeddyJ was so great because people said hello and goodbye to each other. Hello and Goodbye! My old nemesis!

So, I gutted out the class. I did shine during the role-playing exercise where one young lady played the office manager and I played the customer with a complaint. I didn't let up on her until she covered her face and ran away. That was fun.

After each chapter we were encouraged to write down some reflections in our workbooks. Here are mine:

Chapter One: I need to work on being warm.

Chapter Two:I AM a snob.

Chapter Three: MAKE chit-chat!

Chapter Four: Don’t use the tone.

Chapter Five: Let people comfort you.

Chapter Six: I am screwed.

Too Sick to Meme

Or, How to Lose Eight Pounds In Two Days.

I think the title says it all.

Model Wattle

I remember the morning I woke up with a double chin. I was about 11, and overnight my chin poked  out. And by the end of the week I became self-conscious about my chin. Chins.

It still worries me when I watch Katherine Heigl on Grey's Anatomy. My chin alarm goes off constantly.

Watch the chin! I think. Don't smile. Chin! Chin! Ah, no chin. CHIN! Stop talking!

In the past thirty-plus years, I have gone from the chin above, to the chin one can disguise only with great difficulty after taking thirty-plus photos for ones About page, to this:

...and currently, to this:

I seem to be carrying an inordinate amount of weight in my chin, as if all the water and fat in my face slid down below my ears and is making a semicircle of softness below my mouth. It's really out of control.

So, my plan is to follow Gary on the Six-Bite Diet, add fluids and exercise, and call it the Wattle Diet. My goal is to lose my Iguana Wattle, or at least shrink it down to Tree Frog Wattle size.

I'll succeed quickly, I think, because I retain a lot of water in the Wattle.

Some of you are thinking, how will she objectively judge weight loss in only the wattle? You can't see your own wattle, and if you do, it shrinks back into your body in fear. So my plan is to stand in the laundry room and have Gary trace the shadow of my profile on the wall. Then, every week, I'll stand there, line up my lips and nose, and Gary will trace my (hopefully smaller) wattle.

And if there is progress, I will let you know.

Shooooooes

When I was taking Prof. B_______'s History of EducaZZZZzzzzzz-uhn class, the one interesting lecture he gave was on Appropriate Dress for A Woman Teaching High School.

"No dresses, they'll show your legs," he droned. "Nothing below your clavicle. No heels. No pantsuits."
"Oh come on!" we cried, "No pantsuits? Why?"
"Suits only accent a woman's femininity. Oh, and don't wear your hair up in a bun, either."

Then, I went to teach in the adult sector, and I got to wear suits with skirts and heels. That was fun the first ten years, then our dress code relaxed. Just to be companionable, my abdominal muscles relaxed as well. Then my feet said, "Hey, is there a party?" and we put on our Clarks with many festive socks.

Now that I am catering to the needs of my new job (TeddyJ), my dress has changed again. Evidently, TeddyJ likes me to wear pantsuits and stylin' shoes. The pantsuits were easy, but the stylin' shoes are a little more difficult. I can take them for half a day, but a full day in even semi-stylin' shoes make my feet hurt. I notice it most on the hike across the parking lot.

Mom suggested I wear comfy shoes in to work, change at my desk, then change back when I leave. I suppose Mom does not remember the Horrific Shoe Incident of '92.

The Horrific Shoe Incident of '92

During some of the years I worked in heels and suits for my old job (whom I like to call Elliot), I was stationed off-site at Ralston-Purina. R-P is located across the street from the projects. I had two parking options: hike two city blocks across the parking lot, or park by the projects right across the street. I always grabbed my dress shoes and just crossed the street from the hood.

One day, I was walking back to my car after work and I thought, "I don't remember leaving my window down," and then, "Huh. I don't remember leaving a brick on my front seat," and then, "AUUGH! Where are all my shoes!"

Because the one flaw in the comfy shoe / dress shoe switch scheme is that it assumes when you get home you take the dress shoes back inside to the closet with you. Or, OR, you can demonstrate efficiency and logic like a good programmer and leave them in the car, because you'd probably be wearing those shoes tomorrow, especially your one pair of black shoes. Or brown. Or red. Or navy. Or green. Or beige.  Or blue with tassels. Or strappy red ones. Then soon your entire shoe collection is in your car next door to the projects, and someone trades you a brick for all your shoes. All you have left are the strappy red ones that match only the shirt on your back.

When I explained the situation to my contact at Ralston, her response was to laugh heartily and ask "ALL your shoes were in the car?" The same laugh and question was echoed by the insurance guy and the police officer and the project manager at "Elliot."

I had to buy a pair of $20 black plastic shoes at Payless to wear while I built up my shoe wardrobe again. Perhaps there's a Mini-Cooper locking shoe storage accessory.

Productivity Plummets

Conversation while ordering Chinese Delivery for Chinese New Year lunch:

Me: I want to get Special Fried Rice, but I can't. My system doesn't like it any more.
Friend #3: What do you want then?
Me:  The Sweet and Sour Pork lunch special.
Friend #3: White Rice or Fried Rice?
Me: (sub-second pause) Fried Rice.
Friend #3: You're killing me.
Me: No, it's the Special Fried Rice I have a problem with. That's just regular Fried Rice.
Friend #3: Egg Drop Soup or can of soda?
Me: I would have the Soup but I'm allergic to raw eggs.
Friend #3: Give me a break. Egg Drop Soup is fully cooked.
Me: Yeah, as fully cooked as tepid chicken broth can cook an egg.
Friend #3: It is fully. Cooked.
Me: My colon would disagree with you.
Friend #3: Your colon is full of shit.

Top Five

So, the cruise is over and life has returned to normal. For example, Monday I had a scone from Starbucks, went to work, checked my email, tendered my resignation, caught up with voice mail, researched  circular function calls, went to Panera bread for lunch, etc. Wait? Did I tell you I researched  circular function calls? That was exciting.

Oh, and resigning. That was exciting too.

(I accepted a new job the Friday before vacation, after I'd left work, so I had to keep this a secret all through vacation. You know how I am with secrets, if I keep one I have to spill another. I've been dying all week to tell you that on pajama night on the cruise, Gary vetoed my sexy silk PJs and robe because it was too revealing. So I changed into my big red flannel pajamas BUT I removed the panties he insisted I wear underneath, just so I wouldn't be dick-whipped. Whew. There. Okay, now we're cool.)

I've been at this company for 17.5 years, so resigning was a bit of a deal. I imagine people will want to know why, and I know employers want to believe what they want to believe, so I thought I'd make a list of reasons I'm leaving, then let my bosses fill in the blanks in my resignation letter.

Top Five Reasons I'm Leaving My Current Job and Going to Another One

5. I'm at the top of my pay scale at my current company. I haven't had a raise in five years. I'm in the middle at this new company. They talked about raises. They also talked about bonuses.

4. Perhaps I'm having a midlife crisis, but instead of dumping Gary I'm dumping my job.

3. If all my friends jumped off a bridge, would I do it too? Yes, I would. Friend #6 works at the new job. Friend #2 is leaving for the new company too, but going to a different office.

2.  There's a recession coming, and I'm going to be in the same situation I was during the last recession: I'm the one with dual income and insurance and no kids, so my hours will be cut. As it should be. Or, better yet, I could do everyone a favor and work somewhere else.

1. Did you know Fortune Magazine thinks my new company is one of the top 5 best places to work in the US?

So, I start at the hot sexy new company in a few weeks. Hot sexy company that's half my age and has a tongue stud. Hot company with whom I shall have a meaningless relationship with no intimacy and no pain. Transitional Company, Inc., here I come.

Zip Line

Well after the brief scare Gary gave me ("I'm too sick to go on the zip line, waaaaa"), we packed up and went on the zip line excursion in Jamaica. I'll let the photos do the talking.

These are the harnesses they strap you into:

They make you feel kick-ass invincible.

Gary skeptically evaluates his pulley:

After you walk down more steps than were in both WTC towers combined:

They take your harness and latch your pulleys on to two sturdy cables, then you just hurtle down them.

Hey, look at me, I look kind of dwarf-like in this picture:

Then after sliding/jumping down a series of 7 cables, you walk down another infinite series of steps and drink a beer while standing in a bamboo tree.

Gary had a beer too.   

You know what's pretty?

Rain forests.

It was a nice excursion. I felt like I could slide down zip lines for a living when I was done.

 

The Unfortunate Concert by the Internet Cafe

So, a few days ago I was typing in the Internet cafe, which is next to one of the concert venues. The cafe is in a pathway to the cigar bar, where that day a very soulful jazz musician was making his music. I was half listening. What I really noticed was he would be playing a few notes, then singing a little, then there'd be a poignant moment of silence, they a few more meaningful notes, then RRRRRRRRRR! RRRRRR! as the bartender made a daiquiri I swear to God.  And then the Friends of Bill W meeting let out and some members gave up their anonymity by whooping and shrieking in a drunken fashion through the halls.

I felt really bad for the soulful player, because of all the disruptions and because almost no one had come to see him. I wasn't paying attention when he left, but I didn't remember hearing any applause. I left soon after he did.

And it was about two hours later that I realized I'd been listening to the sound check for the Brother's Creegan concert.

Wednesday Update

Gary couldn't take the thought of missing the zip line experience, so he sucked back a container of extra-strength Cepacol and we went. (That was six hours ago and he still can't taste anything.)

Unfortunately, I have taken to signing my comments on the message board "Ellen and the Codger," so a number of times people have recognized him from the blog, or recognized me by my lemon earrings, pointed at him and screamed "Codger!" This is unfortunate, and unfair, since he scampered through the rainforest today like ... like ... some rainforest animal. (I'm on a time crunch, otherwise I would google.)

The rainforest tour description said I would have to be athletic enough to climb a 20 foot vertical ladder. Through the tour I kept my eye out for this intimidating ladder, and at the last zip line I said, "I don't know if I can climb the ladder, my legs are shaking."

"Oh that?" the guide said, "There's no ladder. It's just a test. We just need to know if people can physically take the tour."

More rainforest descriptions when I get back and can upload photos, but for right now suffice it to say that I got to the bottom and experimented, and there are no interactions between FTY720 and Red Stripe beer. I HAD A BEER. I hate beer, but this beer was pretty good.

Vacation Moment

Usually, it takes a little time to get to the vacation realization moment, the moment usually right before the end when you say "Ahh...this moment sums it all up." That was last night.

Last night was "green dress formal night," and people got good and creative with the definitions of "green," "dress," "and "formal." "Green" could mean environmentally sound, dress could mean "kilt," "formal" could mean "giant Kermit the Frog costume." Full-on Kermit. He was an instant celebrity. People had their photos taken with Kermit.

My vacation moment hit me last night during the Great Big Sea concert, while I perched in the balcony and watched Kermit dance madly in the audience below. The person in the Kermit costume got hot at one point and stripped off his head, revealing his Inner Kermit, and Gary recognized him as someone who had been in the front row for the Naked Photo. And this disturbs me.

After a while the Kermit head was tossed around like a beach ball. This was also a little disturbing. But my moment was over by then anyway. Kermit was dancing, and, by the big smile on his face, appeared to be having a good time.

Cruise update!

• Breaking scientific news here: there appears to be no interaction between FTY720 and mixed drinks. Specifically, French martinis.
• One travel freakout to report from the beginning of the trip:
  "What car are we taking?"
  "The Mini."
  I packed up the Mini. Gary unpacked it and demanded I NOT TOUCH HIS STUFF.  Then he packed everything in the Fit and we drove off. Maddening.
• So now we are here on the cruise, and the ship is rocking as nicely as last year, compounded only slightly by the dizziness of unknown origin that started the day after I began the new medicine. I've met many of the message board people, who may feel free to comment on the size of the zit by my nose. Back me up. It has left stretch marks.
• Incidentally, Steven Page wore a suit to the alumni concert. A three piece suit. In addition, he's lost an absurd amount of weight and grown a beard. He is trying to kill me. I may collapse with exhaustion.
• Gary only fussed a little while about the naked photo this year. This year's was an extended photo. I don't know if they were using time lapse photography, but the countdown while we were naked went from last year's 3 seconds to 10 seconds this year (specifically: 10, 9, 8, 8.75, 8.2, 7, 6, 6.25, etc.). Now that's over he can concentrate on squawking over my fashion choices for the green formal night.

Let Us Arise and Go Now, and Go to Miami

I am back from Atlanta and as promised, I did spend the plane flight preparing for the next trip: the one to Miami to catch the cruise. I made a list of things to bring, and more important, a list of things to leave behind.

Gary didn't make this second list. That is why he was inspired just tonight to buy two new suitcases, because all the ones we have now are too big, or too small. These new ones are just right. Just right for his tennis shoes and his dress shoes.  And the special Lush shampoo that matches the special Lush man perfume aftershave.

This is my list of things I will not take on the cruise:

Guitar: Last year, I brought Uncle. Mind you, every moment I was awake, there was live professionally-played music. I could have floated on the case if we sank, otherwise it was dead weight.

iPod: I took my iPod last year. On a music cruise. See above. That iPod Nano took up a square inch of space in my purse.

Purse: Once you empty my purse of credit cards (no Macy's on the ocean), iPod, cell phone (no cell towers on the ocean) and makeup, it's an empty purse.

Formal attire: Formal night on this cruise is "Green Dress Night." Since I'm bringing my green silk pajamas, I'm wearing them. I'll be d