Month: February 2011

Who Wants to Go to Dog Shit Lake? Springtime in Central Ohio, Sort Of

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This weekend it is finally supposed to be above freezing here in lovely Central Ohio.  I know only too well what that means here in Whine Country.  My back yard, which is currently encased in layers of ice and yellow snow, will be transformed.  It will become Dog Shit Lake. 

We have a fairly large back yard, but we also have three large dogs.  The back yard has not thawed out since some time last November.  When it does thaw I know exactly what I will encounter, and it neither looks nor smells good. 

The problem with picking up after the dogs during the winter is that the poo is hiding beneath the snow and ice.  Since it’s hot when it hits the ground (fun fact: normal body temperature for a dog is 101.6 degrees F) dog poo melts through the snow and settles on the ground.  Then additional layers of snow and ice freeze over it so that it is impossible to see.  The dog poo only becomes visible again as the snow- and the poo itself- melts, leaving a noxious cocktail of thawed snow and partially melted, soggy turds.

I’m not shoveling that up.  It really doesn’t help to shovel it anyway, because even if you get the big pieces, you’re not going to get the melty poo water, so it’s still going to reek.

Ahh, the delight of spring in Central Ohio.  The pisser is that even a few days’ thaw is not really spring.  It’s just enough to get the young kids to go back to wearing tank tops and flip flops, but it’s only mid-February.  It will get cold and go back to permafrost for a time or two more at the very least, and the possibility of extended freezing temperatures extends well into April and sometimes even May.

I have to wonder whose dogs are eating in the bathroom.  I know some dogs have a taste for toilet water, and no dog alive will refuse the opportunity to snarf down cat shit should it be made accessible, but one really has to wonder.  I wonder if the author of the note understood that “canine” refers to dogs.  Infestations are usually attributed to pests or vermin such as insects, rats or mice.  Obviously I don’t regard dogs as being pests or vermin, but who knows?  Maybe this person thought “canine” refers to squirrels or rats or some other sort of critter.

Theoretically it could be said that the human gene pool is suffering from a huge infestation of stupid people.  That’s not a nice thing to say, but not everything that’s true is always nice. For anyone who hasn’t already noticed, I am NOT politically correct by any stretch of the imagination.

Sometimes the obvious must be made painfully clear, however, can we assume that a person who needs a sign to be warned not to drink urinal water may not necessarily be literate?  What good is a warning if you can’t read the sign?

Some things should be common sense, but common sense isn’t terribly common anymore. 

Not whizzing on the electric fence sounds like a good idea, no?   There is also an educational song (though the video for some reason shows scenes from Lion King) to remind people of the hazards of tinkling in bad places.  The scary part about Ren and Stimpy is that the older that cartoon series gets the more intelligent they appear to be.

Perhaps in a thousand years, if there is any human society left, they might view such downright stupid humor in the same reverent light as we view the literary works of Shakespeare or Emerson or Faulkner.

Ren!  Enlighten us with your wisdom!  Stimpy!  Share with us your awesome brain!

In a thousand years I won’t be around to witness the madness and depravity that humanity will have devolved into, which is probably a good thing.

Potty Trained and Literate, and Other Parenting Goals

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Dad always said that he enjoyed children once they were potty trained and literate.  Mastering these basic skills can occur for some children by the age of five, but I do not have a whole lot of confidence in a young child’s toileting accuracy, and few children gain reasonable command of the written word until about the age of eight or nine.  I can understand why Dad is rather uncomfortable in the presence of infants, toddlers and preschoolers.  He’s sensitive to smells, and he has an almost phobic reaction to the bodily effluvia of others.  After the age of eight or nine kids are a bit less messy.  It is far less likely that they will pee, poo, puke or snot all over you by that time.  They understand using the toilet, and hopefully before they hit puberty, they will understand snot is not a condiment, and they should also have a rudimentary knowledge of how to use Kleenex. 

Steve-o has been potty trained and literate for about ten years, which for a male is pretty good.  When I say “potty trained,” I mean fully trained, as in (for males, anyway) we aim and achieve our target without spraying the entire bathroom floor, AND we both wipe and flush every time, after dropping a deuce.  He could read relatively well by the age of seven, but it took a long, long time for him to get “wipe and flush every time” down.  

There are few things more disgusting than walking into the bathroom to find a huge corn-loaded turd floating in the toilet bowl, coiled up all alone, without any paper to keep him company.   The only thing worse than walking into that sensory gag-fest every time young Steve-o pinched a loaf was his “science” experiment involving Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.   I will comment a bit on this.  If you eat nothing but Flamin’ Hot Cheetos for three days straight, your feces will be exactly the same color as Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I do have some standards.  If you want to see hot red-orange poo, go troll about on Rate My Poo for awhile.  Trust me, there you will find all things poo and then some.

We are working on the Holy Grail of parenting right now, which is: Gainful Employment and Independence from the Parental Units.

Steve-o did work at Taco Bell during his last two years of high school, but for some reason he either can’t seem to find a job or (my personal suspicion) doesn’t want to find a job while going to college.  This is vexing to me- and a major contributor to my constant state of poverty.  The only thing I can hope for is that when he graduates he finds gainful employment and becomes an independent, self-sustaining, meaningful contributor to society.

Some people hold lofty goals for their children, but I’m a realist.  So far Steve-o’s done pretty well, especially when one examines the lame track record of his age cohorts.  He’s stayed out of jail, and as far as I know he doesn’t have a horde of baby mamas after him, nor has he fathered any offspring that I know about, anyway.  I am not opposed to the whole grandmother thing- I’m old enough for it and I like kids well enough as long as they’re not mine and I can send them home- but he’s got to be able to pay for his own rugrats.  I’d also like to request that he be married to the potential baby mama, although these days that’s a lot to ask. 

In some ways Steve-o is better trained than Jerry is.  Jerry is gainfully employed which gives him the overall advantage, but Steve-o is getting close, and he has already surpassed Jerry in matters of etiquette.  While Jerry generally does wipe and flush, aiming is still a weak area for him, especially after a twelve pack or so of Natties.  Older men should sit and pee anyway, because it’s a long, long time and a far, far distance to have to keep that stream steady, and I’m getting too old to have to keep scrubbing dried up stale pee from the toilet and vicinity.

Jerry does reasonably well when he’s sober, considering he was raised by wolves.  When he’s wasted of course, all decorum goes right out the window and he has the potential to piss in the closet, moon the picture window, run outside in nothing but whitey tighties and a smile, and to play horrible old country music at obscenely loud volumes.   I’ve tried to socialize him somewhat, but in practical application, I’ve had better luck with Sheena.  Sheena has learned to sit and be polite if she wants a munchie, she will go to her crate on command, and she knows her name.  She is also very affectionate and sweet.  This is no small accomplishment for a dog who has only been with us for about 90 days.  Granted, Sheena is not the most intelligent dog I have ever encountered (Huskies can be a bit stubborn and dim-witted, and Sheena is no exception) and her physical coordination is abysmal, but she’s a lot easier to manage than Jerry when he’s 15 beers or so into it.

Dogs are easier than kids by a long shot- the worst thing a dog might do is to drop a deuce on the floor or knock something over.  Kids can get into all sorts of trouble, cost all kinds of money, and can end up in jail.  What really sort of sucks is that even after they turn 18 and you should technically be done with them they still cost a boat load of money, hence my anticipation of the day that Steve-o truly takes on his own adult responsibilities for himself. 

The main problem with breeding is the wrong people are doing it.  I was watching an episode of The First 48 (yeah, I love cop shows) last night and one of the murder suspects being interviewed admitted to, “well I have about five baby mamas and two on the way.”  The same scum bucket was found to be guilty of capital murder and received a life sentence.  Guess who’s paying for those seven kids?  Daddy certainly isn’t, that’s for sure.

I don’t believe in abortion or infanticide or anything Godless and evil like that- it’s not the kids’ faults their parents are scum.  I find it ironic that the same people who advocate mollycoddling violent criminals and murderers oppose the death penalty, but have no problem with abortion.  Isn’t that more than a little backward?

I do, however, believe in preventing ill-advised conceptions in the first place, and I have absolutely no problem with society carrying out its obligation to preserve public safety and to deter crime by executing violent criminals (murderers, rapists and child molesters) swiftly and publicly.

Candy Coated History, Middle Age Cowardice, and Don’t Call Me by My Name

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I don’t remember seeing anything remotely like this anywhere in Marion, but then this postcard likely was from the early 20th century.  There were some most beautiful parks and avenues there back in the day, but by the time I was capable of conscious thought the decline was well underway. 

Perhaps I am as guilty as anyone else of viewing the past through a rose-colored lens.  There were definitely aspects of my past that completely sucked and I am the first to admit it.  Even so, I can’t help but to think there is something wired into our brains to make us see the past with a more positive slant that it deserves. 

“The grass was greener/ The light was brighter/ With friends surrounded/The nights of wonder” – Pink Floyd- “High Hopes”

I don’t think the grass or the light have been doing the changing.  I am the one who has changed.  My vision is dimming.  I don’t get to see the friends who were so much a part of my world, and as far as “nights of wonder” go, suffice to say that it’s been a very long time.  Way too long, even though I know that love is an illusion.  The moment was sweet, but the requiem is long and bitter and loaded with longing and regret. 

The suckiest thing about middle age is that it’s so easy to become blase and jaded.  I have to admit that’s partially my own fault, because I do tend to be guarded.  The drawback of safety is that it’s not all that much fun, but when you’ve been wounded in the ways I’ve been, stepping out and taking chances beyond the cycle of daily routine is terrifying.  I’ve seen more than enough rejection and failure in my lifetime, and that fear makes me wary.

Anything worth doing is worth sacrificing everything for.  I could only pray that I could get to the point where I could love without fear and where I could garner the courage to stand and not be tempted to run back to the ivory tower at every hint of a threat.  I am not even remotely close to that goal.

I’m a coward.  I admit it.  I’m afraid to fail.  I’m afraid to face up to my own inadequacies.  I’m afraid to stand up to those who would control me.  I put up with a lot of crap I shouldn’t because I’m afraid to stand my ground even when I know I’m right. 

I don’t have an easy answer.  In fact, I don’t have an answer at all. 

At one time I used to believe that if only I had enough money I could solve all my problems.  I think that’s the biggest lie that society attempts to drill into people’s heads.  Although I would have a lot less stress if I were in a better financial situation, money only buys one the misery one likes the best.  I see all these celebrities in the news and they are more screwed up than I am- in spite of their money, influence and power.  I don’t think I would refuse money if I would ever have the good fortune to come into it (it would be nice to go on a Cougar Cruise, it would be lovely to have all my superfluous body hair removed, as well as it would be nice to have an indoor pool) but I will still be the same unlovely, awkward, geeky kid that no one likes and everyone makes fun of.   I may not do much for the betterment of society, although if you stick around long enough, I may expand your vocabulary.

On the brighter side, I’m not much of a social butterfly to begin with.

One thing that does bother me about kids is they don’t show much respect toward their elders.  Granted, a lot of elders don’t deserve a whole lot of respect, but it’s the principle.  I can’t remember ever referring to adults by their first names when I was a kid.  So-and-so’s mother was always “Mrs. Johnson,” never “Gladys,” or whatever her first name was, even if you knew her first name.  Kids simply did not address adults by their first names.  Steve-o’s friends generally just referred to me as, “Hey, You,” or if they were feeling really formal, “Hey, Stephan’s Mom.”  I can only remember one of them referring to me as “Mrs. Price,” and I think that was only because he was in front of his mother. 

In some ways I can see where it would be confusing for kids because most of them don’t have the same last name as the parental units they are currently habitating with. They can’t assume that because Jeremy’s last name is Wilson that his Mom’s last name is Wilson.  Her last name could be Fartknocker, or Sanchez, or Wang,  for all the poor kids know, and she might be on Jeremy’s Step Dad #4.  I guess one can’t expect the kids to keep the other kids’ parents’ last names straight.  There are days when I’m lucky to remember my own name, but I have the advantage of being able to use my advanced age as an excuse for memory loss.

I guess I don’t care what the kids call me (one of Steve-o’s friends refers to me simply as “The Cougar”) as long as they pretty much abide by my rules and stay civil in my house.  Empty your ashtrays,  dispose of your Mountain Dew bottles and used prophylactics in the proper manner, and I’ll have no real problems with you whether you can remember my name or not.  I’ve never liked my first name, and being called Mrs. anything  just reminds me a.) that I’m old, and b.) to remind myself that I’m not my mother-in-law. 

It’s easier to say it than to live by it, but when all is said and done, the greater part of humanity is cordially invited to kiss my behind.  I know it’s human nature to seek approval, but it’s my nature to be selective regarding whose approval I care about seeking.

Whistling as the Hearse Goes By, and Morbid Humor

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The only thing worse than a monster truck hearse would have to be the mini-van-as-hearse which sort of strikes me as being cheap.  I really don’t want to make my last trip in a modified Grand Caravan.

Something about this van just screams, “LAME!”   Please don’t take me on my first leg of my journey to the Great Beyond in a Mom van. Especially a Grand Caravan- a vehicle noted for having a top speed of 45MPH going downhill in a windstorm.  If that’s how life after death starts out, then I can envision heaven not as a mansion with many rooms, but as the Motel 6.  I know they leave the light on for you, but I was sort of hoping eternity might prove to be a bit more exciting than free HBO and a continental breakfast.    If I were into pomp and circumstance surrounding funerals- and I doubt if the two or three people who make it to my funeral will really care- but if I were there to enjoy the festivities, I’d want a really classy hearse, and nothing says classy quite like the old Caddys:

That’s my idea of a hearse. One of those would have been great for transporting band equipment back in the day too, but a ’70 Caddy like the one pictured above would have been equipped with either a 472 or 500 cubic inch V8 engine. That would be either 7.7 or 8.2 liters, if you think about engine displacement in liters like I do.  In the world of imports engine displacement is always measured in liters, and automotive (even the domestics, since about 1980 or so) uses metric measurements in general, so you get used to it.  I can see why. It’s sort of lame to think the displacement of your car’s engine is 92 cubic inches, when 1.5 liters sounds better in a  strange sort of way.   The old Caddy with either of those behemoth V8s (and a horrendously inefficient four barrel carburetor- no fuel injection back then!) would have sucked up tons of gasoline, on top of being rather pricey to maintain.  It would have looked awesome though.

Then again, since I’ve had a lot of exposure to things automotive, it would stand to reason I would want to be a bit on the dramatic/traditional side.

There are some things I simply can’t change, so I can either get my undies in a bunch about them, or find the humor in them.  The challenge to find the humor in the things that perplex has proven to be both fun and educational.

The Brits (God love them, because they speak English and have worse teeth than American rednecks, which is amazing in a weird sort of way in and of itself) have elevated morbid humor to an art form.  Benny Hill was known for his irreverent treatment of everything from classic literature (his spoof on Gone With the Wind is hilarious) to sex and death.  Monty Python dealt with death throughout The Meaning of Life and in the classic spot in The Quest for the Holy Grail.  Americans can do a good job at morbid humor too, (the Kentucky Fried Movie’s spoof United Appeal for the Dead is simply classic) though there’s something super silly about the way the Brits do it.

I don’t know why I have seem to have found a strange comfort surrounding the subject of death.  I remember being terrified at Girl Scout camp (now there’s an adventure- sleeping in tents and using outhouses) when we went to an old graveyard to do grave rubbings with sheets of paper and crayons.  Today I would find the old tombstones fascinating, but not then.  Most of the girls were more creeped out by the potential to encounter bugs and snakes.  I wasn’t fond of  bugs or snakes either, (especially flying insects) but at that time just the idea of  being that close to dead people really creeped me out. 

Perhaps the closer we get to the grave, the more we get comfortable with the inevitability of death.

Just yesterday someone was calling looking for a recently deceased co-worker.  I didn’t talk to the person but I did overhear the conversation.  “The person who handles that is not available at the moment,” was the response.  Hell, be honest about it.  He’s out permanently. It’s true he’s not available, but the person who did talk to the inquirer should have let him know that it’s not just a matter of so-and-so being on vacation or out of the office for a bit.

It’s not the end.  Yet.

Things to Add to the Bucket List, 30 Years Ago Today, and Simplicity is Complicated

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On with the February funk, including the whole death theme, because it just plain fits.

I’ll put it this way.  At the end of this month I will be 42.  I have no illusions.  At least half of my life is most likely over, because I honestly don’t anticipate being able to make it to 84, barring extreme advances in medical science and some pretty serious Acts of God.  I know that if God wants to keep some poor sucker lingering about far beyond what we perceive to be his/her useful life He can and does, but I hope and pray I don’t outlive my purpose.  This being said, I still have no clue why I’m taking up valuable oxygen, other than (maybe?) to keep a few people entertained.  It’s not my place to know and I understand that.  I also understand that there have been at least three instances in my life where I narrowly escaped the Reaper:

1. I spent the first week of my life in the hospital with pneumonia and my entire childhood battling various respiratory ailments (as well as getting regular beatings from my sisters, their friends, and kids at school.)

2. I had rheumatic fever when I was 10 years old.  Save for a  two week long series of painful penicillin shots in the butt, and a year-long course of penicillin pills, I’d been worm chow over 30 years ago.

3. I understand first hand why at the turn of the 20th century 1 in 4 women died in childbirth.  In spite of an eleventh-hour c-section, (the whole Murphy’s Law as it applies to childbirth thing, believe that) I was almost one of them.  That was the closest I’ve ever gotten to the Dirt Nap, and at that time I was ready to go ahead and take it.  Some days I’m still very open to the possibility, though I believe the length of my time here is God’s decision not mine.

Again, somehow, I am still remaining vertical almost 20 years later, so there must be some reason why I continue to display vital signs- though said reason continues to elude me.

Before I go take the Final Trip, there are a few things I’d like to do.  Of course the Cougar Cruise is one of them, but I’d be happy just to go on a regular cruise with all the other geezers and so forth.

I’d like to do some international travel.  Granted, I’ve been to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls which was pretty cool, and I was in Windsor, Ontario for an afternoon as a little kid. Windsor is more or less Detroit’s French speaking quarter, and not much to write home about.  I did learn that Dad does not speak French.  I would caution that one does not go to Canada for the cuisine.  Everything we ate in Niagara Falls tasted like greasy Clorox.  It might simply have been the establishments we had the bad luck to choose, but from what I experienced it seems Canadians use grease like Cajuns use spice- and apparently Clorox is the spice.  Acck.  Then again, I believe the national entree of Canada consists of French fries smothered in gravy.  I don’t think I’ll be going for the gravy covered fries any time soon.   I still remember those nasty bland Cloroxy, greasy, slimy, luke-warm chicken wings we had for dinner one night, but even in the States, Hooters’ is not renowned for their culinary acumen.  There wasn’t even any hot sauce on the side to give them a hint of flavor.  It was as if they had never heard of Tabasco or habanero sauce.  Leave it to Jerry.  We had to eat there because Hooters’ was just across the street from the hotel, and they had American beer.  I hope it tasted like Clorox too, but even that would have been an improvement over Natty Lite.

I’d like to go to Europe, even though Grandpa said he didn’t lose anything there and there was no way in hell he would want to go back there.  When he went there, it was during the war.  It makes sense not wanting to go back to that. 

Australia sounds interesting too.  Aussies speak English so that’s a plus already.  The only thing that might not be so fun about Australia is all the venomous critters that seem to live there.  Perhaps I watch Animal Planet and Discovery Channel too much, but I might have to take a pass on the deadly spiders and the box jellyfish.

In a way I’d like to go to the Holy Land, but with all the foreigners fighting over there, I think I’ll have to settle for the shows on History Channel and so forth.  I’m not afraid to die, but I am afraid of torture and rape.

30 years ago, one could get a coveted ticket to see Journey on the Escape tour, which would be the one and only reason why I would like to see time travel made a reality.  I never got to see Steve Perry with Journey, live and in the painted-on jeans.  I’ve seen video with Steve Perry, which is sweet, but it’s not quite the same as being there live.   I’ve gotten to see Journey-which was awesome- once with Steve Augeri, and once with Arnel Pineda, but I never got to see them with Steve Perry, and barring a miracle, I probably never will.  I can’t blame him.  If I were 62 years old and had the life he did, I’d be happy to be retired with my memories and cats.

Today we get a lame-ass half-time show by the Black Eyed Peas, who never really impressed me to begin with.  New music absolutely sucks and no it’s not just because I’m old.  They’re trying to substitute sleaze and special effects for no-talent losers.  Give me a band who can actually play, and singers who can actually sing, and screw the costumes, the sleazy dancing and the light shows.

I’d love to get my life down to being more simple, but that would mean in some ways it would have to be more complicated, which doesn’t seem to make sense on the surface. 

All I can say at this point is that if I have 40 years or four seconds left, I can only pray for the strength to get through it- and to make something worthwhile of the time. 

Woman to Woman Cruelty and Other Wedding Insanity

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Woof.  I don’t see any bridesmaids though, which means this chick either a. Didn’t have any female friends, or b. Was kind enough to her female friends to refrain from asking them to be bridesmaids.

The cruelest thing that one woman can do to another (and believe me, we bitches can be sadistic) is to ask a “friend” or unfortunate relative to be a bridesmaid at her wedding.  There are many reasons for this.

Traditionally the bridesmaids have to pay for their own dresses.  Now if I had the audacity to ask someone to be in my wedding, I really can’t justify requiring her to buy something that she probably can’t afford and probably will never wear again.   Considering what some bridezillas expect their “friends” or unfortunate female relatives to wear, just having to wear it one time is punishment enough without the pain of actually having to buy it.

Give me a break.  One would think you wouldn’t want your wedding pictures marred by Big Fat Bertha’s meaty arms and that overall overstuffed sausage casing look that large women lend to slinky no-sleeve dresses.  It’s no crime to be large, but if you want large girls in your wedding, please find dresses that will flatter ALL your bridesmaids’ figures.  Dresses with sleeves!!! Dresses that will restrain the “puppies” at least enough so that they don’t fly out the top of the dress every time the wearer bends over!

I like pink.  I really do, including hot pink.  However, this dress is only suitable if you are four years old and playing with Barbie dolls.  It will only fit properly on those with the proportions of a Barbie doll too, so please remember, Big Fat Bertha is going to look like a tarred and feathered giant pink whale in this monstrosity.

This is the absolute WORST dress on the planet for many reasons. I didn’t think in all my trolling that I could find a dress this bad, but I did.  I don’t think I’d like it even if the President pictured on it were to be the late, esteemed Ronald Reagan.  I particularly abhor sleeveless dresses of any kind because they are only flattering to the Calista Flockhart set.  Women like me who are all upper body and are proportioned like mutant trolls look really horrible in sleeveless dresses of any sort.   They bring attention to our meaty arms and ample chests.   However, the worst thing about this dress is the most obvious.  Anyone who would even think for one minute that I would wear, much less buy, a dress with Obama’s picture on it, can shove it where the sun don’t shine.  ACCK!

Thankfully I am old enough now that it is highly unlikely anyone would want me to be one of their bridesmaids (given that most of my female friends and acquaintances are either married or happily divorced already) and I would have to vehemently (though politely) refuse due to poverty anyway.  The last time I was strongarmed into doing the bridesmaid thing was when my oldest sister got married, and that was only because Dad wanted her to shut up.  That cost me $300 for a dress I never wore again, and $800 in car repairs from damage inflicted to my suspension on the road trips to and from the lovely Detroit area.  I don’t think there are shittier freeways than in the Detroit area anywhere. Never again.  My sister got her last sadistic laugh on that one.  I don’t understand why she just didn’t substitute a far prettier, more affluent and more photogenic friend.  That was pretty stupid on her part, but I think she got a certain satisfaction just in getting her way, and in the delicious knowledge that it was a major hardship for me to play her game.  When she got married I was in the process of arranging my divorce and needed every dime I could save to get away from my ex. 

There is, however, no arguing with a bridezilla.  My pleas of poverty and desperation fell upon deaf ears.  I expected my Dad to defend me, but even he couldn’t stand up to her incessant whining about it, so I got roped in and acquiesed to keep the peace with my Dad.  I will NEVER allow anyone to do something like that to me again.  It would have been different if I could have afforded it and/or my situation in life would have been different, but it’s pretty damned cruel to expect a woman in an abusive marriage who is trying to get out and get a divorce, to take her freedom fund and blow money to be in someone else’s wedding.  It may have been a happy occasion for her, but to me it was just another pointed reminder of what a dismal failure my life up to that point was.  I know I should forgive and forget, and I do try, but the sheer insensitivity and cruelty of  it made me feel like a bad puppy getting her nose rubbed in shit.  Having to pay for that fugly dress was hard enough, but having to deal with all the car repairs on top of it really added insult to injury.

Then again, asking someone who is on the brink of divorce to be in your wedding is pretty damned callous to begin with, and I don’t care who you think you are.

The things that bridezillas will do. 

I can’t see the logic in the big behemoth weddings anyway.  I see it as a huge waste of money and time.  I am grateful for one thing about Jerry and my wedding- we simply went to the courthouse, paid the county their $50 fee and got married by the justice of the peace du jour who was a Methodist pastor filling in for one of the judges.  No special clothes, no extensive travel, no fanfare, and it was just fine by me.  Of course we did not make any mention of it until after the deed was done so my mother couldn’t barge in and turn a wedding into an all-you-can-eat free for all for all her friends, most of whom I don’t know from Adam’s housecat.  Jerry does have his good points, and in this his frugality was a huge advantage.

Admittedly most women are not as minimalist as I am, and most women have more female friends than I do.  Even so, expecting one’s “friends” and female relatives to put up huge outlays of cash just so they can be there for you on your “big day” is a bit much.  It’s different if they are invited and can decline gracefully if circumstances don’t allow them to participate. 

I think people should remember that marriage isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  There’s no such thing as a knight in shining armor or a woman who is perpetually a celestial vision, even if you plow through thousands of dollars to maintain that illusion for one day.  I say you might as well jump into reality.  Prince Charming he ain’t, she’s no prize either, so you either want to deal with that or not.  Romance is dead, and there is no such thing as true love.  If you can get by from day to day without throttling the son of a bitch, you’re doing good.

Of course it is always possible to simply live alone with the dogs.

Genealogy is Addicting, So Far So Bad, the February Funk

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I don’t know why I find long-dead relatives intriguing, but investigating my own personal history becomes a lot more interesting on the rare occasions in which I find pictures.  I stumbled upon this pic when I was actually looking for pics of my relatives’ grave markers of all things.  This picture is of my great-grandfather, Wert, his first wife, Ethel (who died at the age of 31, in 1910, several years before he married my great-grandmother) and their daughter, Nellie (I would assume she would have been considered by great-aunt?), who died just a few days before her sixteenth birthday in 1913.  They also had a son, Harold, (born in 1907) who died at four years old in 1911.  They were married when he was 22 and she was 16.  I’ve not been able to figure out what they all died of.  I’d always thought there’d been some sort of epidemic or something- but not when the deaths are a year or more apart- unless they had TB or some other condition that doesn’t kill you right away.  In the early 20th century you could die from stuff that is generally curable today, and I know there were several cholera and diphtheria epidemics in Marion County back then- along with all the common stuff like strep or pneumonia that people get all the time but can get a script for and get rid of today.  I know full well I would have been dead many years ago (probably in infancy, considering I was born with pneumonia) had it not been for antibiotics and modern surgical technology.  I guess I could figure it out if I were willing to pay the state of Ohio $16 for each death certificate, but I don’t have that kind of money just floating about.  If I had to take a guess though, I would probably bet on the contagious disease du jour.

My great-grandfather died in 1942 at the age of 69.  He and my great-grandmother had four kids including my grandfather.  Anna, my great-grandmother, had five kids already from her first husband, who died young- so there was a house full of kids.  Anna died in 1970 at the age of 88.  Grandpa outlived all of his brothers and sisters and half-siblings by many years.  I think he had one brother- Maurice- who made to 1997.  Maurice was younger than him too, but Grandpa was 91 when he died.

I don’t know how bad it would screw with your head to lose your spouse and two kids in the span of three years, but I would have to believe it would be a serious blow to one’s sanity. 

Pictures of long-dead people are fascinating even when you don’t have any background information on them.  The pics become even more interesting when you can put a name with the face and even a bit of history to go along with it.  I would estimate that the above pic was probably taken in or around 1898.  Nellie looks as if she is about a year old or so.  It’s kind of sad, really, to look at that pic knowing she never made it to her sixteenth birthday.  What is even more sobering is realizing that her mother was only 17 when that pic was taken.  They had been married over a year before Nellie was born.  I was too young to get married when I was 21 and for that matter, too young the second time I got married at 26.  Hindsight being 20/20 I’d  have been better off to remain an old maid living quite happily in the company of dogs.

I am glad that Nellie was very much alive when the pic was taken.  In that time period photography was extremely expensive, so they must have been somewhat affluent.  From the clothing I gather they weren’t exactly poor.  In that era, pics were often only taken of children when they died.  There is an entire category on E-Bay: postmortem photography dedicated to (primarily) Victorian-era dead people pics.  They go for big money, too, even if the seller has no clue who the dead person is, which is sort of macabre when you think about it.  Some of the postmortem pics are pretty graphic, especially when you can tell they painted on the eyes or that the body has started to rot in places.  In high summer, without benefit of embalming, I would assume dead bodies wouldn’t stay terribly fresh for long.

Being that it is February, and the weather is a major contributor to the February funk right now, death and dead relatives are appropriate topics.    Oddly enough, none of the relatives for whom I know their date of death died in February, even though there are more deaths on average in February than in every other month. 

It bothers me sometimes the lack of information I have on my relatives.  Some of what I do have is rather frightening, some of it enlightening, and some of it downright sad. 

So much gets forgotten over time.  Then again, if some descendant of mine happens upon my name and statistics a hundred years from now, I wonder how they would see me?  Would they see my pictures and then realize why they’re coyote ugly?  Would I be regarded as one of those shithouse rat crazy skeletons in the closet? 

Then again, I don’t think I’ll be here to care.

Which One Doesn’t Belong?, Evil Ice, and Creative Timing

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“Uh, the Doritos and Twinkies sort of taste like spermicidal lube!”

I guess one could think of condoms as “picnic supplies,” though that is a bit of a stretch.  It’s been almost 20 years since I’ve been lucky enough to indulge in a “nooner,” though I do understand some people see action more than once every other decade or so.    If I found it necessary to include condoms in my picnic planning, I would be more concerned as to how often the gas stations rotate stock. 

Speaking of which I am always sure to check the expiration dates on any edibles I get from gas stations.  I would have taken a pic of it if I’d had the camera on me, but I spotted some very old (and very overpriced) Tums in a Speedway station on New Year’s Eve.  I remember this because I’d stopped there to pick up some more Diet Rockstar on the way to the New Year’s Party and Jerry had wanted some Tums.  Under the thick film of dust I was able to spot an expiration date- 2-2001.  I can guarantee that if the Trojans in the Speedway date back to 2001 that they probably aren’t going to be terribly effective at preventing STDs or unplanned pregnancies. 

I wasn’t cruel enough to buy Jerry the expired Tums, but I did rotate them up front so the oldest stock would be the first one someone else grabs.  In most retail stores the freshest stuff is in the back as the old stock is supposed to be rotated up front so it’s sold first.  I admit it, I look at the dates and I try to find the freshest one possible even if it is clear in the back.  The only exception to this is sale meat, which they mark down because it’s almost expired.  I buy sale meat and freeze it or cook it right away so the date really doesn’t matter as long as it’s not expired or already turning green.

I know a lot of edibles are still edible far, far out from the expiration dates but there are some things I don’t take a chance on, and if I have to pay the same amount for something that expires tomorrow vs. something that expires next week, I want the one that expires next week.  I know, it ‘s a mind game, but it makes me feel as if I’m more savvy in getting the fresher one.

Central Ohio weather is usually sucky in one way or another but today and tomorrow we are being hit with freezing rain and ice storms.  I don’t mind snow so much but I hate the ice.  I almost fell on my ass several times just trying to get in my car this morning. It’s always precious to try to chisel half an inch of ice off of the car just to be able to drive it too. 

However, the ice storm made it a lot easier to get right in to Great Clips over lunch.  I got my hair cut and out the door in about ten minutes which was very nice.  I don’t like anyone fingering my hair but getting my hair cut is a necessary evil, especially as I like it kept short.  I was also able to go to Sally’s for face Nair so I don’t have to do those little tasks later. 

Hopefully I will go home and will be able to enjoy my pork and kraut in peace.  I’ve had a lovely pork roast slow cooking all day today.

I find the above illustration at the least, disturbing, and at the most, downright infuriating.  I understand that universities make a LOT of money off their sports programs (I live in Columbus after all.  Our only professional sports teams are hockey and soccer.  Since we don’t have an NFL team in Columbus- I have been told there are no good NFL teams in Ohio- I get to hear the OSU football hoo-hah constantly) but why do they continue to pretend that the “student athletes” are “students?”  Wouldn’t it just make more sense to give the scholarships to those who can make the most use of them (i.e. those with I.Q.s a little higher than that of paint) and just pay the best football players to play football for them? 

Let’s face it.  There are guys who can play football and there are guys who can understand nuclear physics, and do all kinds of important scientific research and so forth.  They are usually NOT the same guy. I know in rare instances jocks can have brains too, but intellectual prowess and sports prowess are almost always mutually exclusive.

I would be curious to know just how much intellect goes unrecognized in this world because the holders of said intellect weren’t able to afford to pay for the expensive pieces of paper to prove it.

I also wonder how many people have the expensive pieces of paper without the intellect and knowledge that should have to go behind them.  I know I have encountered many, especially within the world of education, which is especially ironic.

This particular thought train is starting to piss me off.

Perhaps the brainiacs aren’t as fun to watch as football (??) but I’ll have you know that people with above average I.Q.s tend to have below average physical coordination.  We fall a lot. 

But I’d still rather be a smart ass than a dumb ass, even if I could play football and go to school for free.