Snowbooger Grey and Oat Opera Torture

I can’t say that I enjoy near-zero temperatures.  I don’t mind the cold as much as many people do but should I have a temperature preference I’d like high 60’s-low 70’s, which occur naturally in Ohio about twice a year.  The only problem with the partial thaws between deep freeze episodes is that the snow doesn’t completely melt.  It simply turns to this horrid grey scuz consisting of partially melted snow, carbon from vehicle exhaust, and other assorted unidentifiable detritus that could be (and probably is) anything from dog shit to medical waste. 

Of course, a snowbooger is the sticky, nasty build up of partially melted snow, road filth and so forth that accumulates in the wheel wells and splash guards on cars.  It’s getting to that time of year when the whole world will take on that snowbooger pallor.  I think I understand the statistics behind February deaths.  I can understand someone who is terminally ill surrendering the will to live upon viewing the drudge of the landscape.  If I were suicidally minded (no, I’m not, but if  I were) the pervasive snowbooger grey of the entire month of February and most of March usually too, might just be the tipping point. 

I am trying to force myself to do things that I’m not always motivated to do up front, but that I’m glad to do when I’m doing them, or shortly thereafter.  Of course Jerry does not like me doing anything that does not directly involve kissing his ass, and nothing infuriates him more than me forgoing kissing his ass to do something that is actually good for me.  I was looking forward to going to my church group last night and I was sure to go, and was glad I did.  This did not make Jerry happy, so he decided since he was sitting at home alone with no one to run and fetch for him, that he would drink his Natties and crank up his vile collection of completely putrid country music.

When I say country music, Jerry likes  the really awful old-time twangy stuff like Hank Williams and Willie Nelson.   No Wynona Judd or Clint Black for him.  When you hear the stuff Jerry likes, you understand why David Alan Coe wrote his parody song, “You Never Even Call Me By My Name.”  The following excerpt from his lyrics says all I need to say about dreadful country songs:

“…I wrote him back a letter and I told him it was not the
perfect country and western song, because he hadn’t said
anything at all about momma, or trains, or trucks,
or prison or gettin’ drunk. Well, he sat down and
wrote another verse to this song and he sent it to me and
after reading it, I realized that my friend had written the

perfect country and western song. And I felt obliged to include
it on this album. The last verse goes like this here:

Well, I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison,
And I went to pick her up in the rain.
But before I could get to the station in the pick-up truck,
She got runned over by a damned old train.”

I think I will have to wash out my brain with Metallica after last night, just for good measure.  It did help that I had the noise-cancelling headphones and was able to drown out most of the oat opera torture with some old Journey songs.  God bless Neal Schon.

I am not going to let Jerry get away with his manipulative snit-fits.  I know why I got the oat opera torture last night- because I didn’t just stay home, and I didn’t cart him over to Bob’s so he could get drunk and act stupid and waste time rambling on about BS over there. 

Tonight I am going to another class at church (this one only lasts three weeks) on understanding the Bible (I need all the help I can get) and I know he won’t like that either, but this class is only an hour.  Hopefully he will be too hungover from last night to want beer and I should have enough money to bribe him with the promise of Chinese takeout when class is over.  He’s worse than a little kid who pouts when Mommy leaves him with the sitter- but he swears up and down he’s not high maintenance.  Yeah, right.  He’d be high maintenance on the separation anxiety factor alone.  One would think a grown man could occupy himself with ESPN or something for an hour or two and not get too bent out of shape.    Too bad there aren’t any NASCAR races on Tuesday nights.  He wouldn’t even realize I was gone if there were a race on or a football game.  He doesn’t like basketball.  If he were a basketball fan he would have had some games to watch last night.

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