Black Widow Nursey

I haven't finished this entry yet, but it's all about how 500 baby black widow spiders hatched in our sunroom.

Blah

I woke up before twilight today, feeling unexpectedly ill. I didn’t bother to ritualistically search through my health books to self-diagnose. The symptoms of nausea and aches are too mundane to elicit an interesting health drama.

My day got off to a late, but somewhat productive start. I gathered the information I needed for my technical writing assignment and asked a friend to shop for me. My Thomas Ligotti book arrived a day early. So, I’ll spend the balance of my day either reading The Nightmare Factory or watching a stack of Netflix movies. Yucky, pukey tummy aside, lucky me!

Dr. Twinkie and The Corpse Bride

(This is last night's post. An electrical storm prevented me from completing my update.)
I went to my annual physical exam today. Despite my tendency towards hypochondriac speculation, I loathe an actual doctor appointment. I guess I prefer my fanciful but dreadful illnesses to the reality of a legitimate diagnosis. Naturally, I arrived fifteen minutes early, ostensibly to soothe myself with crossword puzzles. Actually, I intended to reassure myself by observing other apprehensive patients.

Only one seat remained in the crowded waiting room. I crammed myself between an anxious looking grandmother and a nondescript magazine table. I smiled at the grandmother and she immediately averted her eyes. Across the room from me sat a trio of sorority sisters. Two girls flanked their sister, who was obviously very unwell. I was touched by their concern, especially since I noticed that each girl held one of their sick friend’s hands. Everyone else seemed to be nervously shifting in their seats and sighing. As I began to study people more closely, my name was called.

How fortunate we are to live in a society that allows both men and women to become doctors. Physical contact seems less invasive when performed by a sister (or brother). Dr. Twinkie performed her annual squeezing, probing, thumping, listening and measuring. She responded to my catalogue of neurotic questions with compassion and gentleness. I felt healthier and a bit embarrassed each time she responded, "That’s perfectly normal, Bestfiend." I was grateful to have culled half my list of questions the night before. When my appointment was over, I felt relieved to the point of joviality.

**Potential Spoilers**

In the late afternoon, I went to see The Corpse Bride with two friends. Princess Jeanne made me snort water out my nose when she whispered that the Corpse Bride looked just like LaToya Jackson (the boobs, the make-up and the tiny nose). Wonder Warthog was delighted by the song "Remains of the Day," and did an improvised song and dance as we left the theater. He continued to serenade us as I drove them home. He is probably still singing to Princess Jeanne as I write. I am still recovering from the dancing black widow scene--there is no such thing as a "cute" black widow.

The movie was so incredibly beautiful you could easily overlook the cliched plot. It was bittersweet, just as the critics from Rotten Tomatoes promised. Every scene was painstakingly crafted to entertain on multiple levels. Yet it left me feeling strangely unfulfilled. I scratched my head all evening, trying to understand exactly what was troubling me. It finally occurred to me: the movie was too hurried. Victor and Victoria rush towards marriage, but then the Corpse Bride abruptly takes him as her husband. Frightened, Victor dashes away, the Corpse Bride flits after him. Suddenly, Victor decides to marry the Corpse Bride afterall, etc., etc. It was as if all the characters were in a frantic race to end the movie as quickly as possible.

The Corspe Bride seemed to be a Reader’s Digest treatment of a more substantial work. Fifteen minutes of footage was clearly missing. The charm of a good Tim Burton film lies in his poignant characters and their gradual development. Thus, the progression of even a simple plot is given depth and verisimilitude. This aspect far outweighs the slickness and visual wizardry of the usual big budget films. The Corpse Bride seemed to put more emphasis on the gee-whiz graphics and clever sight gags, than the actual characters. It looked like a Tim Burton film, but it did not feel like a Tim Burton film. Nevertheless, I would have been outrageously thrilled with this movie as a kid. It’s the adult in me that is disaffected. Am I missing something? Well, after I have bought the DVD and watched it ten more times, I’ll let you know.

Hickory House

Monday, I accomplished an incredible feat. In less than five minutes, I transformed our entire house into a rustic ski lodge. How did I manage this? Claude’s Brisket Marinade. I slow-cooked a Claude’s-marinated brisket sealed in aluminum foil. When I opened the foil package, a gust of super-concentrated hickory smoke essence belched out. The smell of wood smoke permeated the entire house in an instant. Initially, this was quite appetizing. However, two hours after dinner, not so much. Our Solaris-esque home was redolent of every ski lodge and log cabin in New Mexico.

This morning most of the odor had fortunately dissipated. It will be at least a year before I make brisket again. At noon I received some pleasant news, I might have a position as a technical writer for a local research and development company. Since I am on hiatus from my work as a psychiatric rehabilitation specialist, I welcomed the opportunity. Maybe all those years at science fairs finally paid off! To celebrate, tomorrow I will  finally see The Corpse Bride with mom and dad.

People Watching

Sunday I was gripped by malaise. At noon I realized I needed to force some activity upon myself or I was going to spend the entire day staring at the dog. A trip to Barnes and Noble at the mall was just what I needed.

I was surprised to find big glossy paperbacks on Katrina already on bookshelves. After everything I have read online, these slick publications seemed especially mercenary. It took ten minutes in the puzzle section to restore my good humor. I found a delightful book to add to my library, The Most Brilliant Thoughts of All Time , by John Shanaham. I love quote books!

After the bookstore, I decided to stroll the mall and people-watch. Since it was Sunday, the inevitable church  population was on parade. I am not a religious person who values evidence of one’s piety, but the clusters of well-dressed hand-holding senior citizens charmed me completely. I also noticed that parents had brought four entire soccer teams to the mall to frolic. Shrieking ten-year-olds overran the Halloween Bootique. Although the pandemonium cut short my visit to the Bootique, I realized that if I were there with one other person, I too would be dashing about, shrieking, "Look at this, look at this!"

An hour of walking and watching cheered me immensely. I eavesdropped on two goth girls at Hot Topic--I do not lament tinyness of Topic tee-shirts alone. An elderly gentleman surreptitiously tickled his serious white haired companion at J.C. Penney’s. I joined the spectators at the Aquasagge, and shared a laugh over a soccer mom’s squeals of delight and surprise. I left the mall feeling happier, and in the perfect mood to peruse my new book of quotes.

No E for Me

Forgive me while I catch up a bit.

A few disappointments on Friday left me feeling a bit depleted. First, E was indefinitely delayed in Casper. He would not be home until after the weekend. I was dejected, especially since I had officially began to Really Miss Him the night before. Then my car stereo began to act up. Driving without a soundtrack is simply not as much fun. To add to my woes, the digital cable installed on Thursday worked for only one channel. My frantic four-fifteen phonecall was fortunately acknowledged and a cable guy brought me a new box before they closed for the weekend.

I wrestled with the new cable system briefly, but the sheer number of stations overwhelmed me, so I put on a DVD. This feeling was reminiscent of my first visit to a Super Wal-Mart. The lights were bright enough to be dazzling, and the rows of goods seemed to never end. I was so stunned by the possibility of what I could buy that I could not actually put anything in my cart. These days I am quite friendly with our local Superstore. Hence, I’m optimistic about digital cable, especially since I discovered that Willard is in heavy rotation on the Encore Mystery channel.

Saturday I visited with the folks. Dad chatted jovially with me about our shared enthusiasm for graphic artists from the seventies. He sent me home with the graphic novel Pigeons from Hell, beautifully adapted by Scott Hampton and with an introduction by Ramsey Campbell. Lucky me! Mom eagerly related her adventures in computer shopping, inundating me with technical jargon and complex buying strategies. Despite her Dell Computer Mania, I was grateful that she was still Mom enough to send me home with some food--I had been subsisting on Cheerios and rice milk for most of the week.

In the evening, I fiddled some more with the digital cable, exclaiming “Wow!” and "Gee!" at irregular intervals. Despite the nifty selection of movies, I wound up glued to the computer until it was time for Saturday Night Live. Since last season was rather poor, I was morbidly curious about this season’s premiere. My already low expectations prevented disappointment. After fifteen minutes of watching, I was astonished to find myself strangely attracted to the host, Steve Corell. His elegant suit and well-groomed appearance certainly reminded me of E. I was so disconcerted that I popped off the TV and spent the next few hours back on the internet (not googling Corell once, mind you).

Pool Party

Yesterday’s pool party was great fun, but the day leading up to it was hectic. First, our ancient swamp cooler began to dump water onto the roof. I hauled out the ladder and trotted up to adjust a cooling panel dislocated by the wind. Twenty minutes later, more water. Apparently when I re-positioned the panel, I knocked the water-regulating float out of alignment. Few things are more hateful than adjusting that damn float. During the lunch hour, our digital cable was installed. At last, will be able to watch real matches on the Tennis Channel instead of observing flickering numbers on an Internet scoreboard. Later in the afternoon, I returned home to discover water festively sprinkling Misty’s digging compound. A hose to the swamp cooler had sprung a multitude of tiny leaks. Good thing I left the ladder up. Anyway, it was delightful to have company. The weather was mercifully cool and pleasant. Baked appetizers worked better than a cookout. Our swamp cooler did not plunge off the roof and squash anyone. Whew. My only regret was that our extemporaneous guest of honor, Mukor, was too ill to attend. We consoled ourselves by sailing Misty around the pool in a Spring Float Recliner In a post-swim discussion about The Nightmare Before Christmas, Ewbliette mentioned that Jack Skellington seemed very spider-like to her. Since we are both arachnophobes, I wondered why this resemblance did not disturb us more. My theory--dark spiders are scary and evil, pastel spiders are benevolent and sweet. Would I hunt down pink widow spiders with the same zeal as their ebon sisters? I wonder. This theory clearly deserves meaningful expansion, alas I am too tired.

Mr. D. and Oxygen Tank Man

As I was frightening the koi with the leaf blower, the phone rang in the distance (I have the phone volume set on "startle" since I blast the stereo when E is not home). It was Ewbliette, who explained that she wasn’t feeling her best and a convenient scheduling change allowed her to get off work early--so I should come over now! We scrapped our movie plans and I stopped by the local gourmet store to purchase goodies. I picked up sushi, chocolate and two bottles of chocolate beer. Yep. Chocolate Beer--or "Stout," to be more accurate.

If you’ve never had Chocolate Stout, I warn you, it’s an acquired taste. Ewbliette took a sip, raised her eyebrows, and said, "Olives. It tastes like black olives." Have you ever realized how much enjoyment comes from the texture of a food? We love black olives. But fizzy, liquid black olives? Not so much.

The sushi was one step above the supermarket variety, very tasty but not delectable. We filled our little bowls with soy sauce and squeezed in generous helpings of vivid green wasabi paste. Yow. The two of us are natives of New Mexico--the "Chile Capitol of the World." We smirk at the hot on hot sauce bottles. We will not smirk at those who consume sushi with murky green soy sauce puddles. It was hot--so hot that the capillaries in my face burst and evaporated the tears streaming from my eyes. Yow.

Our only recourse was to dump massive quantities of Kikkoman into our wasabi bowls. After the third dousing, our bowls were brimming with liquid. Ewbliette laughed, and exclaimed, "Look, Wasabi Kool-Aid!" This cracked me up so completely, I’m still giggling.

We chased the sushi with real chocolate and fed the VCR The Nightmare Before Christmas. Since we’ve both seen it a thousand times, we can sing along with gusto, but I guess the wasabi ordeal exhausted us, so the singing was only half-hearted. After the movie, we parted, agreeing that tomorrow’s swimming party would be the most outrageous, energetic spectacle we’d enjoyed since we absconded overnight to Deming to view the August meteor showers.

Waiting For The Phone To Ring...

Well, he’s off. has left for a five day field trip in Casper, Wyoming. Sigh.

He flew into Denver and drove the  four hours to Casper since the only other air transport is a glorified crop duster that can’t fly on windy days. As I wait for the "I’ve arrived safely" call, I have two morbid fates to neurotically contemplate--the usual airplane crash inferno and the improbable (but deadly) freeway flip-over accident. Needless to say, I avoid watching Fox News when he travels.

****

Yay! He called! His voice is like hearing a beloved, but long forgotten song. Yay! His trip went well except for the urinal-cake-mobile that Hertz rented him. The rental car was apparently infused with an unsavory combination of air freshener and sanitizer. To compensate, fate created an unexpected room shortage at the hotel, thus E received an upgrade to a super-mega-ultra-suite. Yay!

Well, I’m off to ruminate over the expectant horde of rapists, burglars and dog abusers who have been waiting for his departure to perpetrate their foul crimes. Sigh.

An "Axe" to Grind

After watching countless hours of U.S. Open coverage, E craved the much-ballyhooed Axe Body Spray for Men. I’ll give E mad props for wearing cologne like a gentleman--subtle.

I  was raised with the Vanderbilt’s Standing Distance Rule. If someone can smell your fragrance at more than three feet away, you are wearing too much. The optimal amount of fragrance should be perceptible when someone leans toward you, not propelled at your nostrils when you enter a room.

Needless to say, E’s request horrified me. Axe is not a product you dab on delicately like a rare perfume--you blast it on like spray paint. We agreed to compromise and pick up a deodorant stick.

I must have spent forty-five minutes sniffing men’s deodorant sticks. Two were selected. I reached a few conclusions in the process. If you disagree, print this out, take it with you and start smelling. You will be amazed. Please note that:

1. All popular men’s products smell a little bit like Gillette.
2. When they say a man’s fragrance is "fresh," they mean it smells like Windex.
3. If you see a selection of more than three men’s fragrances, the rest smell like the previous three fragrances, but with either fruit, flowers or pine scent added.
4. "Bold" always equals "Cloying."

I decided to review the Axe brand of deodorant sticks. You can find company propaganda here.

**** Essence: The most popular fragrance judging by variety of products represented. I believe its charm lies in its inoffensiveness, a subtle blend of familiar but unnameable scents. I bought this for E.

* Touch: Yow! They should have named this one "Ants." It has the faint odor of squashed ants (and Gillette). This will be at Big Lots for $0.89 in no time.

*** Kilo: Windex, Gillette and insect repellent.

*****Phoenix: Smelled like Dillard’s. Agreeable. I purchased this as well. This was E’s favorite.

** Apollo: Windex, Gillette and flowers.

** Voodoo: Gillette, Old Spice and flowers.

 

I won’t even dignify the women’s fragrances with a review, however I will give them credit for not obfuscating their fragrances with silly names. "Honeysuckle," "Lavender" and "Fresh Rose" are straightforward and accurate descriptions. If you want to wear 1,000 flowers under your armpits, knock yourself out, girl.