assorted rants, creative writing, dogs, misanthropy

Cultural Illiteracy, Road Tripping with Clara and Lilo, and Boxing?

I should have known that Jerry’s co-workers would have absolutely no idea who Vincent Van Gogh was.  He works in a body shop after all.  Since I failed to make any reference to any redneck cultural icons, they didn’t get the joke.  If I had mentioned anything involving NASCAR, other sports, especially football, or country music, then I probably would  have been OK.  One of the guys asked Jerry if I had attempted to do a Mike Tyson on him.  I should have caught that.   Mike Tyson- as a heavy weight boxer, and boxing is a sport- would be much more likely to be in these guys’ frames of reference than a 19th century Impressionist painter would be.  Shame on me for my cultural illiteracy.  If I’m going to attempt to make a joke, I have to remember who my audience is.

I don’t really know a whole lot about boxing, (or about any sport) but it is one of the more interesting sports to watch.  I would never want to engage in boxing, wrestling, hockey or football or any other contact sport, as I had my ass kicked enough times in the first ten years of my life to last anyone a lifetime.  I’ve had my ass kicked enough to know that I don’t want it kicked again unless I have a damned good reason to fight.  Since my fighting skills are pretty much non-existent, I would have to say the only things that would get me into a physical fight would be self-defense, or attempting to defend someone else who is wrongfully getting a pounding.  Then I would be morally and ethically compelled to at least make the best attempt I can.  I don’t want to get my ass kicked for anything trivial.

I don’t mind watching other people beat the hell out of each other though, especially when they’ve agreed to do it.  Boxing is kind of fun to watch because the action doesn’t stop very often.  The rules make sense.  You win when you knock the other guy out.  I don’t see how boxing could be considered a sport one takes on for one’s health benefit though.  The training for boxing might consist of healthy things to do, but then you take that buff bod and go run out and get your ass kicked?  Perhaps this is the effect of testosterone on the brain, but women box too, so that can’t be the whole answer.

I was the loser in enough catfights in my time- courtesy of my oldest sister, the most sadistic child ever dropped on planet Earth- that I really don’t like watching women fight.  Unless of course they are yanking out each other’s hair weaves.  For some reason I think that’s funny.  My hair, back in the day, was of course, attached to my scalp, making the whole hair-pulling bit a hell of a lot more painful.

This afternoon I have to take Clara and Lilo up to the Vet.  Lilo has been mistaking her butt for food lately and I am at a loss as to why she is chewing on it.  Clara also has one bad spot on her leg which I think is another granuloma, but that I want to have the Vet check out since I am making the road trip.  Sheena is (thankfully) doing OK so she doesn’t need to go, and I wouldn’t tempt fate by trying to handle more dogs than I have hands at one time.

At least I’m getting out for a bit.  They like riding in the car and they both really don’t mind seeing the Vet so it should be an interesting afternoon.

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assorted rants, cougardom, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

Please, Reattach Body Parts Should They Fall Off, and Other Things I Should Never Have to Request

I’ve been a sort-of fan of impressionist art. I can appreciate Van Gogh and Monet, but then I can also appreciate cats playing poker. I certainly wouldn’t call myself an art snob.  My tastes in art are varied and eclectic for what it’s worth.

 About the only “art” I draw the line on involves the use of bodily effluvia (snot, poo, pee, etc. are not artistic, sorry) and/or the portrayal of Elvis and/or Dale Earnhardt.

It seems that Jerry must have mistaken himself for Van Gogh last night.  He made another poor decision to go the hell hole to get hammered (what’s so unusual about that?) and managed to inflict bodily injury on himself (again.)  This time it was his ear lobe.  He didn’t come close to actually ripping it off but he fell into something and managed to get about  a 1/2″ cut in it.  It’s not a life threatening cut, and it’s not even in a place that can be stitched, but every time he so much as brushed against it this morning it would bleed.  The pillowcase looks like Freddy Krueger had actually gotten to him in his sleep from the amount of bloodstains on it.  Remember what they said about not going to sleep or Freddy will get you? (Man, I loved the 80’s slasher flicks back in the day…just couldn’t get enough of that slashtastic action.)   

I should have really freaked him out with that observation, but I was busy enough trying to get him to let me put a band-aid on it or something.  One would  have thought from the drama that Freddy really did come in and slash him last night.

I put a little note in his lunch for the guys to read.  Today’s should be very funny.

Dear Guys:

Please be extra nice to Jerry today.  Last night he was so confused and distraught he mistook himself for Vincent Van Gogh and tried to cut his ear off.  Should it actually fall off, please take him to the ER so it can be reattached.  Thank you for your patience and understanding.

I thought it was weird when I had to leave messages with Steve-o’s sitter such as:

Please do not allow Stephan to eat all five boxes of Pop-Tarts I sent in one day.  He is permitted one package of two Pop-Tarts per day.  Thanks!  (This was actually a note to my mother, who for some reason thought it was OK to let a six year old free-forage in the kitchen.)

Please do not allow Stephan to eat more than two (2) Fig Newtons with any given meal.  Figs give him Montezuma’s Revenge.

Please do not allow Stephan to chew on your dog’s toys unless you sanitize them.  I wouldn’t want your dog getting any diseases.

Of course, I still think that my request directly to Steve-o to just put the dirty pants in the wash without sniffing the crotch as a “freshness” test, takes the prize.   I never imagined I would ever have to say this to a 17 year old.

I’ve had to request some strange things in my lifetime, but I’m used to it.  Not too many things shock me anymore. 

I’m sure I’ll think of some though.

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assorted rants, cougardom, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

Masks of the Heart, Real Life, and Breakfast in Bed

I can’t say that any of my facades are this lovely, but I do appreciate a good Venetian mask.  I can put up a heavy front when I feel it is required, which is most of the time, but there’s not much I can do to mask my poor coordination and bad proportions or exceptionally plain face.  It’s just not possible to polish a turd, unless of course you have watched the episode of Mythbusters where Adam and Jamie do exactly that to make a point.  It can technically be done, but why?

I hide behind a lot of masks.  Sarcasm is one of my favorites.  So is assuming intellectual superiority where possible, which is more often than it probably should be.  I’ve never claimed to be some sort of great mind- the more I learn the more I discover I don’t know- but the ignorance and/or stupidity of the populace at large is frightening.  Just because stupidity is rampant doesn’t make me any smarter than I was before.  Rampant stupidity only means that most other people are more stupid than I am, which is scary on a number of levels.   Here’s how I see it.  I am no great intellect, but in comparison to the average Joe or Jane Blow on the street, I’m a flipping rocket scientist.  That should be frightening to anyone who has ever witnessed me in one of my absent-minded fits where I’ve misplaced and then had to try to find things like my car keys, my phone, my Bluetooth headset, or my MP3 player.  I should have Velcro embedded into my skin and likewise a patch of Velcro stuck to these essential objects so I can just stick those objects to my body.  That way, maybe, I can remember where they are.  It could make showering a challenge though.

In reality, I’m certainly not a rocket scientist.  I played hell getting through high school algebra.  I wonder to this day how I not only made it through three quarters of accounting in college, but managed to do it with high “B”s.  I may be one of those geeky analytical types, but for some reason higher math never clicked with me.  I’m doing good to balance my checkbook so I can freak out over all the money I don’t have.

Money and intelligence don’t always go together either.  Especially inherited or married-into money.  I never had any kind of advantage in that department- having been born not only with a plastic spoon in my mouth AND looks that could stop a thousand trucks.  So I never got any scratch from relatives, and I certainly didn’t have the bait to attract a rich sugar daddy.  I’m fortunate to have landed a man with Dad’s minimum criteria.  Dad would always ask three questions when my sisters would talk about getting serious with a guy:

1. Is it white? (Racist?  Probably, but Dad is not at all PC, and in his mind marrying a Catholic was as close to “mixed marriage” and moving past the traditional WASP couple paradigm as he ever chose to contemplate.  He just about lost it when one of my sisters went out on a date with a guy who was half Mexican.  For some reason, though, he didn’t object to Jerry, who is probably 9/10ths or more Cherokee.)

2. Is it male? (Homophobic?  Definitely- but Dad does come from a backwater town- and a very conservative, old school, Regular Baptist upbringing. I am most certainly a straight woman anyway, so I can forgive him that. I may have brought home some dismal trollings in my time, but they were always male.)

3. Is it employed? (Dad has no use for deadbeats, and I really don’t blame him for that either.)

To his three minimum qualifications (though #1 is a grey area as far as I’m concerned- I really don’t get hung up on race or ethnicity) I would add “hair” and “teeth.”  Jerry does have hair and teeth (the teeth are mostly implants, but not dentures at least) which at almost 54 is rather amazing.  I am a bit curious, though I hesitate to investigate the statistics.  I wonder how many men over the age of 50 are afflicted with ED?  I bet it’s more than half, and I bet very few of them either admit it or do anything about it, regardless of the popularity of  the Viagra and Cialis commercials.  Guys just don’t like to face it.  I can add an FYI: neither do women.  We just suffer in involuntarily celibate silence- unless we have the money (and the lack of scruples and absence of shame) to hire a boytoy.  I have neither the money nor the lack of conscience to find myself a boytoy, cougar jokes with Steve-o’s friends aside, so it is what it is.  Thankfully, I have hobbies, and early menopause has pretty much done away with any desire I had anyway.   My idea of a romantic evening is TruTV and an early bedtime.  It’s easier that way anyway.

Dad never said anything about ED.  He should have warned me, but I can’t imagine someone as modest and straight laced as Dad about such things making a statement like this:

“Just so you know, when your old man gets to be about 45 or so, his Johnson won’t work any more.  Sorry.”

There’s just some things you have to learn as you go, apparently.

I’ve got to stop putting myself through that kind of noise.  The whole weekend breakfast routine.  I don’t even like breakfast, and I usually only gag down some yogurt and oatmeal to keep my sugar in line in the mornings.  (Diabetes sucks, but it does make you pay attention to nutrition and exercise and all that health nut stuff.) Jerry enjoys the Behemoth Breakfast which means I have to get up early on a weekend morning to fix it for him, and serve it to his happy ass- in bed.  I don’t know how someone can drink that much alcohol and eat that much grease and still be above ground.  Maybe I’m the one who has it backwards.  Jerry might be like those Russian dudes who drink vodka all day and smoke cigars one right after the other and live to be 115.  That wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

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assorted rants, cougardom, creative writing, dogs, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

All That Really Matters, a Crack in the Armor, and Leash Training

Sheena is a beautiful dog, but she is as stubborn and willful as she is beautiful.  We decided (or should I say Jerry decided, because I am not at all hyper like he is in the evenings) to take the dogs out on leashes, which we haven’t done for some time.  Clara and Lilo were not too bad, although Clara always does better on a leash with her harness.  I should have taken the extra minute or two to put Clara in her harness.  I refuse to use choke chains or pinch collars on my dogs, although I’ve seen a lot of people who handle Malinois use choke chains or pinch collars to keep the dogs under better control.   Clara simply wants to run.  The aim is to get her to stay back and walk politely which she does when she knows she has the harness on and I can pull her back if I need to.  Lilo was her usual self, laid back and trotting along with her peculiar little bow-legged, sideways gait.  I wonder sometimes if she tracks sideways because she’s cross-eyed or because she’s bow-legged, or maybe a combination of both.

The few times I’ve had Sheena on her leash she has been relatively obedient for me.  She does surprisingly well in spite of her lack of socialization and formal training.  Then again, Sheena is a bit of a cling-on with me anyway, so that makes leash training, even with a conventional collar, a breeze.  Until Jerry takes her leash.

Sheena did not want to be on the leash with Jerry.  I can’t blame her.  I don’t like it either, and he only has me leashed in a figurative way.  I had Clara, and without her harness she was enough of a handful.  So Sheena decided that if she had to be with Jerry, she was simply going to sit and dig her big, splayed feet into the ground.  I never knew this about Huskies until we got Sheena.  They have huge, insulated, clompy paws that are reminiscent of polar bears’.  Sheena is a huge klutz on dry land, but surprisingly graceful on snow and ice.  Sheena, however, does not do anything Sheena does not want to do. It’s funny.  She’s just as stubborn as Jerry is.

Yesterday was a very pleasant day.  Steve-o got rid of that monstrosity of a hoopty Mitsubishi that I had been hoping he would do ever since he ended up with that piece of mess.  Somebody was even dumb enough to give him money for that POS, which I welcome, but fail to understand.   Now all I need to hear from him is that he’s spending his weeks keeping up his GPA, and his weekends cooking up that taco meat and shoveling it into those tacos and burritos.  I don’t want him to work at Taco Bell forever, but a few hours or so on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays- until  he finishes school- is not too much to ask.   If he could do 20 or 30 hours a week at $9 an hour, that would certainly help, and they don’t even have to train him because he’s worked there before.  Then he can worry about buying his own food and gasoline and cigarettes for a change.

Adding to yesterday’s pleasantness, I had an unexpected, but welcome, conversation with an old friend.  I still have a heart in there somewhere after all.  I know, I know, how things could have, should have been. Wish in one hand and crap in the other, which one fills up first- but it’s nice to know that old connection is still there, and that I do have at least one friend that is thicker than water.   Since my true friends are few and far between and delightfully rare, as I have said before, I should take care not to neglect them.

Memory and imagination both serve me well- probably too much so- but hearing a voice from the past and even engaging in surface-level pleasantries was a rare delight.  There are a lot of people I have to talk to and with out of necessity, but very few I enjoy talking with.  I hope sometime in the near future that we can talk in private over dinner and a drink rather than a little too publicly over the phone, but that might be a bit hard for me to take.  I would be the one in need of the leash instead of the dogs, and that’s not a place where I need to go.

Balance is the key word.  Usually I am quite the example of reserve and restraint, but it’s been a long time since- well, a lot of things- but I miss intelligent conversation the most.  I also miss being treated like a lady and not just someone’s housekeeper/babysitter/gofer/indentured servant.   There is something to be said for spending an evening in civilized conversation with a friend versus spending an evening effectively alone cranking up the MP3 player with the noise-cancelling headphones to drown out the lovely infernal racket of Drunk and Stupid meets Boxcar Willie. 

I have to be careful how far I let my mind wander, and I need to set some boundaries on just how much lingering in the garden of memory I’m allowed.  Still, there’s nothing like a bit of an oasis in a very hot, vast desert.

I have to find a balance between maintaining those relationships that challenge me and energize me (very few and far between) and tossing the albatrosses around my neck overboard.  I tend to forget when to toss the albatross.

I’m too old to start over even if I could, and whatever fiery passions of youth I once had are pretty well extinguished.  As the old joke says, “In my youth I wanted a nice BMW.” -” Today I’ll settle for it without the W. ” 

Besides, anyone interested in dinner and conversation with a crusty old cougar like me has likely long-since been relegated to the “coyote-style” crowd, so crossing the line in a carnal fashion is highly unlikely to occur.  It’s not as if I am still some horny teenager or twenty-something, and all of my friends are significantly older than me.   Hopefully the POMC is enjoying “Willie on Demand” while he can (even though in conscience I can’t approve of him fornicating) because there will come a day when Johnson won’t stand at attention any more. 

Unless of course, by the time Steve-o gets old, Medicare is still paying for geezers’ pecker pumps.  That would be his luck.

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assorted rants, cougardom, creative writing, misanthropy

Not Very Nice (but Hilarious as Hell) Observations of the Unwashed Masses

I have friends who send me the “People of Walmart” picture collections all the time.  I do find them funny, largely because anyone who ventures out in public looking like that deserves to have their picture posted online ad nauseam and to infinity, if for no other reason than to send a message.  Some people actually have standards, such as keeping one’s butt crack  covered and out of public view. (Steve-o….)  I can’t blame Steve-o for crashing out on the couch, but I can get the pic of his exposed midriff.  He can literally sleep anywhere, which can be fun to both watch and document.

On Sunday, when I was in Marion, Steve-o and I decided to go to Taco Bell, which hopefully was a good thing, because I think he has talked them in to having him work there again on the weekends.   I get culture shock every time I go back up to Marion.  Closer to home, I’m used to seeing foreigners and what I would consider “sophisticated freaks.”  Up there, the freak element is usually morbidly obese, poorly dressed, and always White Trash.   

Sunday was no exception.  I was surprised I noticed her before Steve-o did, but then he is more acclimated to the ways of the Rural Ohio Redneck, because he lives in Marion and goes to school in Lima.  It’s sort of like Deliverance- only without the mountains, canoes or banjos.  There’s not much else to do in rural small towns except to eat and fornicate, so one can expect to see a lot of fat people doing a lot of breeding, especially the ones who don’t have cable.

Steve-o is not a “little guy.”  He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 180# and 190#.  Up there, however, he is often dwarfed by the women.  One thing I like about going back up there is that by comparison I’m downright petite.  

This chick had at least 150# on Steve-o and probably an inch or two of height as well.  I didn’t take a pic of her out of fear that since she was in an eating establishment she might mistake me for food.  I don’t know where she found such massive pajama bottoms with this print, although Walmart is renowned for the variety of styles in their Plus Size collection.  She had to be a 5X at least.  Now I know who’s buying the size 20 underwear.  Why, oh why, does any clothing manufacturer sell size 20 women’s undies in the thong style?  What’s the point?  I understand that it might take a few yards of material to craft a “brief” style panty (although there’s nothing “brief” about an ass the size of a Toyota Corolla) in that size, but the coverage factor would be well worth it.   If one really wants a 5X thong it would be more cost effective to go to the Tractor Supply store and buy a 25′ spool of rope.  Better yet, for the tiny bit of good it might do, as far as coverage goes, just go commando.  It would spare others the visual of getting to see your thong-string as well as your gut when you get up and stretch and yawn.  Woof.

I had to watch this heifer’s Taco Bell feeding orgy with a sort of a combination of disgust and awe.  I tried to avert my eyes but I simply had to watch, sort of like when there’s a car wreck. You know you shouldn’t stop and gawk, but you just do.   I never knew it was possible to cram two whole tacos in a human (?) mouth at one time, only to munch, chug Mountain Dew, and still manage to carry on a conversation.  The two tacos were only an appetizer.  I gazed in muted horror as She-Behemoth inhaled an order of Nachos Bell Grande, a steak quesadilla, a few burritos, a  box of 12 supreme tacos, with sour cream and guacamole, and a Mountain Dew with a few refills.  Thankfully I am not one who is easily nauseated.  Steve-o (thankfully, or I’d never been able to keep a straight face) was facing the opposite direction of the She-Behemoth during her cram-fest so he didn’t get an eyeful of her power taco-stuffing adventure.  He is not easily nauseated either, but he is also even less likely than I am to hold back his commentary on such a disgusting visual.  I could only hope that if he did see and inevitably comment, that he would be kind enough to comment in German, so at least he would be the only one to understand that he was making crude references to the table manners of feeder swine.

I managed to eat my chili-cheese burrito without much incident.  Steve-o did glance over and see She-Behemoth when he was on his way out, as she was stretching, yawning, and exposing a rather large bare patch of her rather porcine gut (and what I believe was -gag- the string of her thong.)  All he did was look away and shudder.  He saved his commentary for when we got in the car.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him what watching her eat was like.

Now I know why I normally go through the drive-thru at places like Taco Bell, so I don’t have to sit down to eat and feel as if I am in a hog barn observing the sows suck down the slop.

It is sort of cruel to make fun of the large.  I am not rail-thin by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s a difference between being large and being crude and large.  If you have big meaty arms, wear tops with sleeves.  Do the general public a favor and don’t confuse tights or leggings with pants.  If your top doesn’t completely cover your butt, don’t wear it with tights or leggings.  Tight jeans are for Steve Perry in the early ’80’s.  If you don’t look like that, and if you aren’t a dude, don’t go there. 

If I had a time machine…

Another disturbing trend I notice when I’m out in public is there must be a dire shortage of mirrors.  Either that or I’m just old and it has become socially acceptable to go out while wearing house slippers and/or pajamas in general.  I really try to save others from that visual. 

I can stand the PJ parade a lot better than I can the Piercings and/or Tats Gone Wild crowd.  What could possibly compel someone to tattoo his entire arm to look green and scaly like a lizard?  I saw a Target “Team Member” (cringe– any place that has euphemistic names for their employees such as “Associate,”  “Team Member,” etc. is almost always a dreadful place to work, and I’ve commented on that phenomenon before) yesterday who had this done to his left arm.  He was a nice looking young kid at one time- probably even magically delicious- before the 1 1/2″ earrings, before the nose rings, before the lip rings, and I don’t even want to speculate on piercings or tats in other areas.  Maybe that’s why he ended up a stock boy at Target instead of a Chippendale’s dancer.

I have to wonder how many tats are inspired by a little too much drinky-drinky?

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creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest

The Three “Esses,” a Walk in the Graveyard, and a Limited Time Offer

I always knew that guys had it easier in regard to a lot of every day things.  Their morning get-ready routine goes as follows: Shit. Shower. Shave., which are known collectively as “The Three Esses.”    No fussing about with makeup or hair styling or any of that noise.  Their haircuts cost less.  They don’t have to fuss over clothing choices (usually) and generally aren’t that picky as to whether or not their clothing is clean.  It took me years to convince Steve-o that sniffing the crotch of one’s pants is not an acceptable method to discern the difference between “soiled” and “fresh.”   They eat anything as long as it contains the three food groups- caffeine, nicotine, sugar and grease, remembering always that alcohol is a sugar.

The bad thing is that some of the guys I know probably have to have someone write down the Three Esses on their bathroom mirror, lest they forget them.  Of course I would have to add a bit of a dental hygiene regimen to that- please brush your teeth, and Listerine is not a bad idea either!

I finally figured out what the major advantage is to being born male:

When a male child is born it is as if the universe makes a statement to him. You are made exempt from household chores by the magical power of possessing the Twig and Berries!  Schwing! Jerry never literally spelled it out that way, but in practical application he might as well have. A swinging Johnson apparently gets nearly half of the human population out of a LOT of work.

I did manage to take a nice, long wander about in the Marion Cemetery yesterday.  I dumped a lot of the crap in my memory card (several times) and still didn’t scratch the surface as to cool old gravestones to take pics of.  The angel (above) really struck me.  I hadn’t noticed it there before, but the entire cemetery is about two square miles which is a lot of wandering about.  Most of my wanderings yesterday were in the old / high faluting part of the cemetery with the really over the top monuments.  For those who think old ostentatious grave markers are really way cool also, you can view the slideshow on Shutterfly .  Nobody did death like the Victorians.

I was shocked by the number of stillborn infants, very young children, and women who died in their early-to-mid twenties, though I shouldn’t have been.  In the 19th and early 20th centuries one in four women died in childbirth and infant mortality was at times almost 50%.   Usually there were no causes of death on the gravestones except for the some of the Civil War Veterans who were killed in action.

I find this one particularly sad.  Either Wallie was an only child, his parents had a lot of money, or both.  It’s beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

Life is a limited time offer.  I guess that is the lesson to take away from an afternoon in the graveyard.

Lust?  What’s that?

Oh, yeah.  It’s been a very long time.

 

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assorted rants, cougardom, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

I Don’t Need No Stinking Brackets! Next Time, Try the Oprah Channel!

Ok, now I’m pissed.  Last night I was denied my fix of  World’s Dumbest due to freaking basketball. Why take away my TruTV- one of my favorite channels, that is normally gloriously devoid of all things sport- and have basketball instead of  World’s Dumbest?  Why can’t they put the extra sports (yes I know it’s March Madness- it’s all I hear from Jerry and it’s all I hear at work) on the Oprah Channel or some other channel I don’t watch, like the Fishing Network or better yet, one of the 8 different ESPNs?  The only thing about putting sports games on the Oprah Channel is that little old bitties like my Mom would probably have a coronary.  Mom needs gossip, scandal and treacly pathos like a fish needs to be in water.   Then again, there’s always the Hallmark Channel if you want to watch those dreadful tear-jerker chick flicks that Mom adores, but I just plain can’t stand. 

To be fair, TruTV did air two episodes of World’s Dumbest before the games were supposed to start, but it really disturbs my little world when it’s Thursday night and I don’t get a new episode of World’s Dumbest.  I know, I need to either get a hobby, or better yet, get a life.  I did make use of the time to watch a documentary on the reasons why the Titanic failed on National Geographic Channel, so at least I learned something.  I also cleaned up and defragged my home computer, which kept me offline last night, but thankfully it’s a LOT faster this morning.  It’s old, and I’d love to have one of those new tablet PCs, but I can’t afford a new one.  I can’t even afford a memory card and/or an external hard drive for the one I have.  So from time to time I have to houseclean and defrag it, otherwise it would be so stinking slow it wouldn’t matter whether I have Roadrunner or not.  Since I am paying out the wazoo for both premium cable and Roadrunner, I might as well get my use out of both of them.

I am hoping for a very quiet and sports-free weekend. 

Jerry of course will be watching all the basketball and NASCAR, etc. he possibly can all weekend, but this is the beauty of having two TVs.  I’ll either be catching up on my napping, or I’ll be watching the Discovery Channel, Science Channel, History Channel, National Geographic, etc. whilst he is being occupied with sports.

I have come to the conclusion that the Thinking Woman is a rather rare beast.  I’m talking about women who take the a predominantly rational approach to life rather than a predominantly emotional approach.  Most women (even the prevailing emotionally dominant types) are more intelligent than most men.  When I say Thinker, I’m not referring to intelligence per se, but to a method for getting through life.   For those who are familiar with the Myers-Briggs test, there are Feelers- people who act primarily on their emotions, and there are Thinkers, who act primarily on logical thought.  Neither of these orientations is right or wrong, better or worse- they’re just different perspectives and ways of operating. Most women are Feelers, while most men are Thinkers, at least according to the minds behind Myers-Briggs.  From experience I would have to say I agree with that general assertion, though I know there are exceptions.  Jerry is more emotional than any woman I’ve ever encountered, and I’m probably the least emotionally driven person I know.

I’ve taken the Myers-Briggs.  Twice.  Both times the result was the same.  My type is INTP, which really is no surprise, especially the Thinking and Introverted elements.  I am about as warm and fuzzy as a tire iron. 

I enjoy time with people (sometimes) but I prefer one-on-one discourse instead of being in a crowd- especially if the group is loud.  Most of the time I’d really rather be by myself.  If there’s something I need to do, leave me alone and let me do it.  I have a really hard time with group projects.  I don’t mind doing my fair share…but let leave me alone and let me do it.

There are all sorts of entertainments for the Feeling Woman out there- Oprah, Hallmark, Home and Garden, TV talk shows, those dreadful chick magazines like Cosmopolitan, ad nauseam.  The Thinking Woman gravitates toward some of the same stuff as Thinking Men- true crime, documentaries, history, and so forth, but most of us really can’t get wrapped up in sports.  The Thinking Man embraces all the players’ names, team names, standings, statistics and all that sort of crud that would just clog up my brain.  It wouldn’t be crud to me if I were interested in sports, but I’m not, so it doesn’t make any sense for me to memorize any of that stuff.  I did find out amidst all the March Madness banter that there is actually a college named Morehead.  I normally don’t feel sorry for cheerleaders, but I feel sorry for the Morehead cheerleaders.  Believe that.

I know I am not the only Thinking Woman out there, but I’ve not met very many in my lifetime. 

I know the basketball deluge is only temporary, but I’ll be glad when I get to go back to my Thursday night new episode of World’s Dumbest.

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