It’s bad when you look at a couple and then wonder about wild-thing logistics.  I admit it’s rude, but when I see a really huge couple I can’t help wondering who makes a bed with a half-ton capacity, or do they just do the wild thing on the floor?  It’s bad when I see a really large woman and a really tiny man (or vice-versa) and wonder if their kids were adopted or what.   That’s just not nice of me, but I can’t help wondering.  I like men with a little meat on them- but I have a hard time imagining doing wild things with guys who weigh more than my car.

Kids might blow fruit flavored cereal milk out their noses when they finally get it that the feral cats out front are not “wrestling” but making the next generation of kittens.  Cat sex does come across more like fighting than anything else, which really makes me wonder how there can be so many cats if the kitten-making process is so terrible.

I will say that old people have to put aside the Kama Sutra and get real.  Half of the positions in that book are physically impossible for  25 year olds,  let alone those of us with a lot more years on those stiff and crunchy joints.  The question you have to ask before doing much of anything is, “How do I do this in a way that I won’t dislocate a hip or snap a wrist?”  Then you just give up because it just doesn’t seem to be worth all the effort, and besides, it’s time for Cops, or Dr. G, or Smoking Gun Presents. And don’t even think of bothering me if Dirty Jobs is on.  Mike Rowe is hot, hot, hot.

I’ve always been one who lives more on the vicarious side- it keeps me out of trouble.  I don’t need any trouble, and watching other people screw up is a lot funnier than actually screwing  up myself.  Perhaps I stay up in the ivory tower a tad too much, but I don’t like to be too exposed and I don’t really want to share my vulnerabilities because I have so many.

I know my pathetic lack of courage and extreme risk avoidance behavior keep me from having very much fun.  Safe is safe, but not usually fun.

I am going to have to get tough on Jerry’s forays to the hell hole.  I know that technically I am enabling his drinking and gambling by giving him rides home.  If he is dumb enough to walk over there to begin with he can stagger home.  I also should never bring him money over there even though I know if I don’t he will go medieval on my ass.  I don’t like pissing him off, but it’s high time he grows up.  Drinking lost its charm for me when I woke up in the Campbell House motel room bathtub with a half-eaten Domino’s Pizza on the ledge.  That was 1993 and I was 24.  I never cared for gambling so that was never an issue for me, but still.   Jerry will be 53 in April.  High time to pull his head out of his ass.

I shouldn’t give Jerry the satisfaction of letting his shitty and stupid behavior depress me either.  I know that plain, boring and poor women like me end up with men from the shallow end of the gene pool.  As Meatloaf so aptly put it, “there ain’t no Coupe deVille in a Cracker Jack box.”  Shit, there ain’t even an old hoopdy Hyundai.  Even so, I know even though I am plain, boring and poor I can live without a man- especially one as high maintenance as Jerry- quite nicely.  In fact in many ways better because I wouldn’t have to worry about doing things for him that he’s too stupid and/or lazy to do for himself.  On days like today, when Jerry is showing his ass and acting even more stupid than usual, the thought of moving in my grandma’s old house and paying the expenses for Dad sounds really good.  That is, until I think about the hundred miles a day I would end up driving so I could get to work.  I also wonder if I would find it creepy or a comfort to live in the house my grandparents lived in for almost 70 years.  I think I would find it a comfort but who knows?  Just being in Marion dredges up a lot of memories that are better left undisturbed, and a lot of old ghosts wander about there.

Living in Marion wouldn’t be terribly expensive but there’s no suitable employment for me there.   I like where I work for the most part and I’ve been there ten years.  I do know if I were to stay in Columbus on my own that the only living arrangements I could afford would be in the ghetto.  Grandma’s house is in a rough part of Marion too but oh, well.  I don’t want to have to do that but I don’t have to take shit either.

I have mused on the subject before and more than likely my stupid soft heart will prevail.  I shouldn’t feel sorry for him.  I should leave. But something always ends up holding me back even though it doesn’t make sense.

Passive-aggressive revenge sounds so inviting at times like this.  A part of me really wants to make him pay for the stupid shit he does- especially when drinking and gambling are involved.  I wish I could give him a good ass whipping or something to make him learn better but there is nothing I can do except to step back and let him learn from his own dumb ass mistakes if that is possible.  I am quickly losing what little hope I ever had of that.