Twisted, Torrid and Tawdry, for the Love of Dirty Laundry, and Friends or Total Strangers?

For being introverted almost to the point of being antisocial, I surprised myself in taking the initiative to go to my class reunion dinner.  There were activities planned for the entire weekend, but I know myself- a little social interaction goes a long way with me, especially in potentially awkward situations, and even more so in potentially awkward situations involving  other people and too much alcohol.   I can’t drink in public for a number of reasons, and I get enough of drunk-watching-as-entertainment at home.  I did party back in the day, but it lost its charm long ago.   Maybe I’m strange, but 25 years is a freaking long time, and I live in a completely different sphere than I did in the wonderful world of the mid-1980’s. 

Spuds is in the G&R, the stars are in the heavens and all that, but I’m not the same.  Me, circa 1986, would not even vaguely recognize me, today.  The 1986 me would probably be running for cover, screaming, “HOLY SHIT, I’ve become my mother!!” 

Some of the people I graduated with are almost exactly as I remember them.  Others have been dealt with even more cruelly by time and circumstance than I have been.  Some- or I should say most- I’d never recognized at all if not for the name tags.  Especially the guys.  I got there a bit early so I could watch people trickle in and perhaps gain my bearings.  I was shocked at how old some of the guys looked.  Jerry is 12 years older than me, but a few of these poor guys looked as if they had 20 years on him.  As cruel as it may sound, one thought that went through my head was, “Who are these geezers, and what happened to my friends?”

I don’t mean that in a malicious sort of way.  I know only too well that time has been rather cruel to me as well, even though I was never much to look at to begin with, and have always been proportioned like a mutant troll.  I am sure that not a few people looked at me and wondered what the hell happened.  I think in some ways we are all wondering just when we got so old.  I know I sort of expected everyone to look the same as I remembered, which isn’t terribly realistic. 

It is sort of sad in a way that I’ve really not kept touch with people over the years.  I do care, but I get busy, and I spend far too much time catering to Jerry and his high maintenance needs.  He made it very clear long ago that he really doesn’t want to socialize with any of my friends (frankly, I think he’s afraid of them seeing him when he’s shitfaced and acting like a horse’s ass) and I don’t socialize much anyway, so as soon as you know it, everyone I used to know is a geezer/cougar too, and their lives and circumstances have all changed. 

I made it a point not to get embroiled in anyone else’s scandals or juicy bits.  If someone were to investigate, and the more inquiring minds likely have, they can uncover all sorts of rather twisted, torrid and tawdry dirt on me. I’ve done my share of stupid things and made my share of really bad decisions.   Don Henley said it back in 1985- “We all know that crap is king, give us dirty laundry…”  The thing is I don’t have the heart to hold a 25 year grudge toward anyone, or to dredge up anyone’s sordid past. 

Over all, I think it was a healthy thing to reconnect for a moment, but above all, to be reminded that the past is exactly that, and for the most part, it’s a good thing.   I’m a lot more comfortable with myself now- although being in a room with close to a hundred people I’ve not seen in years did keep me more on guard than usual.  (Yet another reason why temperance befits me!) I did see some people in a different light which was also a good thing.  I may not have been one of the Beautiful People, but the line between me and them is not quite so well defined anymore. 

In some ways I like to think that I may have made some new friends. Even though I may have known them years ago, people change.  I am not the maudlin, huggy-kissy type.  I don’t  have the talent to just take up a decades-old conversation where I left off as if it were yesterday.  I don’t remember names well (I do a bit better with faces) and I know to some I might seem aloof, but even though I refrained from hugging and kissing, it was nice to see people again. 

I just couldn’t bring myself to swig on the community bottle of Boone’s Farm (acck) either.  I’ve had a pathological aversion to drinking after others (especially on a glass bottle) ever since I was about four, and my sister used to grab my pop bottle, take a big swig and backwash into it.   The thought of drinking other people’s spit and/or pre-chewed cud is one of the few things that just really completely gross me out.

I did have to take a pic of the “I Love Them Crabs” drink holder.  That is classic.  Some things do remain the same.

Eat Mo’ Possum, Not for the Squeamish, and Things Dogs Do

It’s 5AM.  Do you know where your possum is?

It’s Sheena and Lilo’s before breakfast snack!

Of course, Sheena and Lilo were not this tactful in their preparation, and they didn’t even get around to cooking or plating their unfortunate marsupial morsel.  (Apparently in Australia, possum is considered a meat entree, much to my surprise.)  They were playing tug-of-war with it and were at the point where the guts squirt out,  almost at the point where the head pops off (Clara and Lilo have done this before) when I opened the door to call the dogs in. 

Nice.  I get to distract Sheena and herd her away from her kill (Lilo will drop it, and Clara knows better than to butt in on another dog’s kill, but Sheena…Sheena is Sheena) and then I get to go get a flashlight and a shovel and at least toss the possum remnants and guts over the fence, all before most people ever get out of bed. 

The worst thing about Sheena killing stuff other than I have no idea how she does it, is that blood shows up really dramatically on her white coat.  She came in looking worse than Cujo, covered in possum blood.  Perhaps her killing method somehow involves severing the carotid artery or jugular vein rather than just snapping the unfortunate critter’s neck like a normal dog.  I am really surprised Sheena is capable of a bloody kill- considering that her canine teeth are nothing more than little stubs.  Now it could have been that Lilo (whose canine teeth are quite long and sharp) made the kill and she and Sheena were fighting over it, but Lilo is generally an ambush predator.  When she and Clara tag team, Lilo flushes the critter out while Clara generally makes the kill- like a normal dog- she grabs hold and snaps their necks.

Or it just could have been that the artery was severed as they were trying to pull the unfortunate vermin apart.

Regardless of the method employed I had both a bloody dog (I checked for punctures and discovered it was not Sheena’s own blood) and a mess of possum pieces to clean up.  Acck.

It’s a good thing I am not easily nauseated.  I came close to getting a little grossed out when some of the guts stuck to the shovel and I had to scrape them off.  That’s one reason why I like to take the girls’ kills away from them before they have a chance to eviscerate them.  It’s less messy if there’s only one piece.  The other reason, of course, is because Lord only knows what kinds of bacteria and parasites- or even rabies- might be hiding out in a dead critter.  The girls are all current on their rabies shots, and they are all on a worming med, (Heartgard and other products that contain Ivermectin protect against all kinds of internal parasites, not just heartworm)  but I still don’t think it prudent for them to be munching about on wild critters.  That possum probably lived its whole life eating out of the dumpsters at the Drunk and Domestics or out of the City BBQ dumpster, but who knows for sure where it’s been?

Don’t let her fluffy white cuteness and dental issues fool you: Bad teeth and abysmal coordination aside, Sheena is a killer. So far, one possum, one squirrel, and one (possible) blue jay.  I still think the blue jay was already dead and she just decided the wings might be be tasty, since the jay wasn’t using them anymore, but Jerry insists that somehow Sheena must have grown her own wings and killed the jay herself.

Dogs, like human children, can do some pretty gross things.  Kayla, our lovely GSD who lived to be almost sixteen, used to adore rolling in dead things.  There are few things nastier than 95# of dog that smells like carrion rolling about on the carpet.  Her love of all things dead and rotting was probably Kayla’s worst vice.  Thankfully, she didn’t mind a bath and would even raise her paws one at a time so we could get in between her toes and pads. 

Clara and Lilo have had their moments of eviscerating critters- usually squirrels- which can be disturbing, but they will drop it on command.  Sheena, not so much.  Once Sheena gets on to something like that she is not satisfied until it is scattered everywhere.  When she killed the squirrel, I had to get it from her by squirting her in the face with water and grabbing the squirrel with welding gloves so I could toss its sorry carcass over the fence.

I still have to wonder about eating possum.  I have been known to eat rabbits and squirrels (both tasty) but I’ve not tried possum.  I certainly don’t want it after Sheena has gummed it to death.  That possum was pretty large to boot.  If I  had to guess from the size of the pieces and the volume of guts it was probably the size of a very large cat.

Possum… the other white meat?

Monumental Moments in Advertising, More Crap I Don’t Need, and Let’s Go to the Fair!

Or, if you’re poor and don’t have a dime for the pay toilet, just slide your skank ass under the door.

I haven’t seen a pay toilet since the Hills store got closed down in either 1981 or 1982.  Perhaps someone finally realized that the skinny girls simply slipped under the door and used the john for free, and the fat ones just dropped their deuces on the drain in the middle of the floor.  That was something very nasty to walk in on- someone’s steaming pile sitting on the drain, reeking and drawing flies.  Acck.   Back then I was one of the few who neither being waif-thin, nor coordinated enough to make it under the door, would generally either scrounge a dime somewhere or wait until I got home.  I am proud to say that I never stooped to dropping a deuce on the floor drain.

‘Tis sad if my list of greatest accomplishments has to include refraining from crapping on the floor.

There are certain odious advertising jingles that tend to stick on one’s head.  The Shower-to-Shower jingle has to be the all time most annoying of all time.  I do have to appreciate the fact that in this particular commercial they gave the Woman Who Forgot To Sprinkle her very own private dinghy so she wouldn’t stink up the yacht for everyone else.  That’s compassion for you.  It’s better than what the poor People Who Remembered to Sprinkle had to endure in the elevator with the Non-Sprinkler du jour.  (I should not be old enough to remember these commercials…)

Today for some reason someone mentioned Colt 45 Malt Liquor, which I’ve always thought to be glorified cheap beer, but then I’m not a drinker, and I’m certainly not a beer drinker, (I think all beer tastes like earwax smells) so how would I know if it’s tasty or if it’s pisswater, or whether or not white people do actually drink it?  So I had this lovely little tune running through my head for half  the morning.

The list of absolutely horrible 70’s and 80’s commercials is virtually endless.  The good point about them is even when they were horrible, they were at least original.  Today there is such a dearth of creativity in advertising- they just dig up an old Heart song and try to make it apply to the damned Swiffer thing that isn’t worth two shits to pick up dog hair- or anything else for that matter.   

I blame the popularity of free love and way too much LSD for this one, even though there’s (thankfully!) no jingle in it:  1970’s Chuck Wagon commercial.   They sure did make that dog’s hallucination look real and they sure did make that dog food look tastier than most of Taco Bell’s menu.  Despite the originality and creativity of this ad, I don’t think that particular brand of pressure-cooked lips and assholes and other meat by-products we humans would rather not know exist is still being marketed.  I am sure that Chuck Wagon, like every other cheap dog food of that era, was the end result of the final disposition of diseased livestock. I still wonder if it was the Chuck Wagon or Mom’s dreadful cooking that led to Suzie the Dachshund’s untimely death. Suzie loved the Chuck Wagon- but she also loved socks and underwear crotches, and Mom’s mashed potatoes with the big uncooked lumps and big black burnt flakes,  so Suzie wasn’t exactly a picky eater.  Most dogs aren’t terribly picky.

I have always liked Dr. Pepper and Diet Dr. Pepper, but this 70’s Dr. Pepper Commercial is almost enough to make one shoot oneself in the head to end the insanity.  It seems sort of Communist too- I can imagine the Soviet version: You must all be Peppers

Sometimes when I’m bored I find it entertaining to look at all the crap I don’t need.  Lighted slippers?   If you’re that freaking blind turn on the light. 

Jerry has decided I need to go with him and his sister to the fair next week.  I enjoy going to the fair, but I hope that the current stygian heat tones down a notch- hopefully somewhere below 90 degrees- otherwise they might end up having to call the squad on me.  I don’t tolerate heat worth a damn, and I’m pretty much confined to the Great Indoors when the temperature is much above 85.  So I really hope it cools down a bit.

I bet the chickens would be happier if it cools off some too.

Better yet, just leave me in the refrigerated room with the butter cow.

I think that most young kids in the Central Ohio area- the Columbus metro area especially- only get to see farm animals at the fair.  I don’t know if that’s entirely a good thing.  Even though I grew up in the middle of nowhere, I did live in town and therefore never really had hands-on experience dealing with livestock- except for the heifers in Taco Bell and Wal Mart, but that’s not quite the same thing. 

The only animals that (miraculously) didn’t scare the bejeezus out of me as a child were dogs.  Big dogs, small dogs, even dogs that other people branded as “mean,”  never gave me any trouble.  I got in trouble with Dad one time for climbing the fence and cuddling up to a neighbor’s Rottweiler, but the “mean” dog didn’t bother me at all.   He was quite friendly toward me, and the other kids were too afraid to mess with me when I was in the dog pen with the Rottie.

No problem at all with the dogs.  If only other humans were as easy to interact with…

Embrace the Technology, Ask the Magic 8 Ball, and Catharsis by Proxy

Thankfully I’ve never really been a technophobe.  Unlike my “better half,” who just about had fits of apoplexy trying to operate a touch screen phone, I would rather embrace the technology, especially when said technology is something that will make my life easier. 

For being cougar-aged I think I do pretty good with texting, Facebook, e-mail, Twitter, etc. and I try not to let the gadgets intimidate me.  The MP3 player, for instance, is one of my favorite innovations, because it has freed me from both testy cassette tapes and CDs that skip at the slightest vibration.  I can also put my entire music collection in a tiny box that is just a wee bit larger than a credit card, which is convenient too.  Granted, most of my music collection was originally released long before both CDs and MP3s, but it’s pretty much all been converted to digital format, so I don’t have to worry about being right in the middle of “Bohemian Rhapsody” or “Dixie Highway” only to have the damned tape break.  This is a many splendored and beautiful thing.

However, just because something is new doesn’t mean that it’s essential or even desirable.  Some good examples of innovation gone horribly wrong include:

No Wash Underwear!

I bet those would smell really good after a few days.

The “As Seen on TV” crap is always good for a laugh, but as far as practical application goes, I really can’t see it here:

Spray On Hair!

I wonder what this stuff does if you get caught in a rain storm?  Or if you want to go to the pool?  I bet it would be cheaper to just buy a can of Rust-o-leum in the appropriate shade and spray away.  Or maybe try some of that fake fur that Grandma used for those horrible doll faced Kleenex boxes – the same stuff I covered the dash of my ’77 Rabbit with.  I’m sure there’s some waterproof double-faced tape that would hold it on.

One of the more endearing devices I acquired for my amusement actually dates back to the late 1940’s.  Consulting the Magic 8 Ball always ensures a good laugh even though it is about 50% accurate on a good day.  That makes it about as reliable as a Central Ohio extended weather forecast. 

Let’s have a bit of fun with the 8 Ball today, shall we?


“Will I ever be able to go more than a day or two without removing superfluous hair from some area of my sorry old body?”


“It is certain.”

Is this damned thing broke?

Well, I might as well ask while this thing is giving me answers on the far side of credibility.

“Will I be going on a lovely, long Caribbean Cougar Cruise this fall?”


“Better not tell you now.”

That’s probably the best answer this thing’s had in a long time.

I have to admit I have been rather bummed out lately.  I feel as if I have failed at so many things I really wanted to be good at.  Right now I particularly feel like a bad mother.   Maybe I overindulged him.  Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so pissed off when he was 12 and I got a bill from the cable company for about $300 worth of hard core porn pay-per-view.  That’s one of the things that has to suck about being an only child (although when I was a child I would have been delighted if somehow my sisters would have gotten shipped off to Africa or Siberia or pretty much anywhere way far away from me where they couldn’t kick my ass, and guys couldn’t ask me for my phone number so they could call them.)  With an only child, everyone knows exactly who to blame for everything messed up or bizarre- from the unflushed, toilet paper-less mountain of feces in the toilet to the BB holes in the walls and ceilings.  Even though he denied it, I knew he was the purveyor of the pay-per-view porn, and it was so easy to prove.  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure this out:

1. Jerry is lucky to figure out how to use the remote to turn on the TV and change channels.  Anything beyond that, including operating the “guide” function, is quite over his head. 

2.  While I can navigate the cable menus with the remote with relative ease, I am not awake from 11PM-2AM, which is when said skin flicks were viewed, and I really have no use for flicks with titles like, “Hot Cheerleaders in Heat” or “Thunder Twats.”  If I were to be the video voyeur, there would have to be a lot more sausage in the titles for them to interest me.

Soooo, the only person in the house who understands the technology (how to access pay-per-view with the remote,) and is awake at such an unholy hour to view the ill-gotten smut, and has an interest in plotless girlie action would be???

Process of elimination?  The fact that the dirty viewing was all done on weekend nights when he had buddies staying over clinched the deal.

I still have pay-per-view disabled in my house, just in case by some weird Murphy’s Law-like corollary, Jerry would access it by mistake.    I know Jerry figuring out pay-per-view (or even accessing it by accident, which would be more likely) would be about as likely as 1000 monkeys banging on typewriters coming up with Webster’s Dictionary, but it would be my luck.

I need to find a site where I can virtually punch something.  Something to make me feel better about completely horribly sucking at everything. Online Frogger is good, but a bit frustrating because the aim is NOT to get the frog hit by a truck.

I guess I am just waiting for something else to remind me what a horrible mother I am.  Oh, yeah, I didn’t buy him those $100 pants he wanted when he was in 8th grade, or the big screen TV.  I made him fess up to his Dad when he was five years old and called me a b—h.  I didn’t staple a full body condom on him every time he walked out the door.

Then again I have to remember, the boy is now an adult and perfectly free to screw up all by himself.  Lord knows I screwed up just about everything, and freaking still do.

Whine Country Updates, An Idle Mind is the Devil’s Playground, and Fantasies from the Attic

Ah, the good old days, when the air was dirty and sex was clean.  I vaguely remember the 70’s, if only for knowing that the cartoons were over once Soul Train came on, for the Hy Way Rollerena, and for the bad, scratchy, hot polyester clothes we had to wear.  But the 70’s were technically before my time (though I love the rock and metal from that era.)  By the time I figured out that there was more to procreation than French kissing, the 80’s were well underway.

I’ve been so busy that I’ve forgotten to follow up on a few interesting things.  Here’s the Cliff’s Notes version:

Uno the Shih-Tzu is in a very happy home (not mine) where he and his little buddy the Jack Russell can run and play together without any cats to torment.  I don’t think Isabel misses him.  He’s a good little dog, but I like my big girls, and I’m pretty sure Isabel is quite happy not getting humped.

I’m going to be nice and can the Hester Prynne references in regard to Steve-o’s baby mama.  I don’t think anyone troubles with branding unwed mothers with scarlet letters anymore.  If anything in this day of anything goes morality I have to admire her courage to seek support and to do the right things.  Steve-o wasn’t exactly planned either, and even though I was married to the sperm donor at the time, that’s pretty much all he was good for.  At least Steve-o is standing by her and wanting to be a real Dad to his kid, otherwise, he knows I will rip off his nuts, POMC or not.  I do like her, and I would not be terribly troubled if they did go ahead and get married.  I hope they do follow through on their confessed desire to be good parents and to stay together, especially for the poor child’s sake.   The Blessed Event should occur sometime around March 3rd.  Sucky, sucky, sucky time to have a birthday, especially if the poor child (aka: Boo-Boo) arrives on Feb. 29th so he/she only gets a birthday for others to forget every four years instead of getting to forget his/her birthday every year like everyone (almost always) conveniently forgets mine.  If I only aged a year when people (other than my dentist, the insurance agent and the BMV) remembered my birthday, I would be…four? 🙂

Maybe it’s a bit mean-spirited to refer to one’s impending grandchild as “Boo-Boo,” but I can’t help it.  The reference is just too cute, and too appropriate not to miss.

Grandma (and do I ever miss my grandmothers now that I’m fixing to become one) always used to say that an idle mind is the devil’s playground.  I would have to assume that’s a related corollary to the expression, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” which is true as well.  I don’t get very many idle mind days, and that’s probably a good thing, because with my sense of humor, an idle mind will only lead to mischief.  By some fluke of nature today is the first day in a long time that I have not been positively scrambled and buried and insane.  I’m just trying to sort through the wreckage and do a bit of mental housecleaning for the time being.

I sort of hope little Boo-Boo turns out to be a girl.  That way if she has red and/or curly hair it won’t be as big of a tragedy.  I know they want a little boy, but boys’ clothes are boring, you can’t do much with their hair (other than mohawks or fauxhawks) and I know where to find all sorts of adorable Hello Kitty stuff.  I don’t think Steve-o would be terribly thrilled to see his little boy with HK barrettes in his hair or playing with various HK toys, but I don’t think he would mind his little girl playing with them.  Maybe we’ll get a bonus and there will be two Boo-Boos, a boy and a girl, but it would really be cruel for me to wish twins on them especially when it is going to be enough of a challenge for them to deal with one.

On the bright side, it is another day above ground and vertical.

I have to wonder if the 80’s version of me would want to kick my ass right now.  Maybe that’s a weird question, but I had always hoped I would get around to doing some of the exciting things I wanted to do such as world travel, intellectual pursuits, and so forth, and I’ve not gotten there.  I am more than halfway through life at least, with not a whole lot to show for it.  I have my fantasies but they only go so far.  I don’t even have time to sort them out and write them down which sucks.  I would love to tell the stories that sift through my mind- and I fully intend to…when I get a minute.  Perhaps that is the most elusive fantasy of all.



Now there’s a disturbing visual for you!

Stuck in a Retro Funk, Losing My Mind, and Bad Responses to Stress

Suffice to say my life is insane.

Back in the day I would be using some coping strategies that unfortunately are forbidden to me in my cougardom.   My health and the vast array of meds that I have to take simply to remain breathing and above ground have pretty much made it impossible for me to: work until I fall over, and then drink until I forget everything.  My advanced age, sense of morality, aversion to guilt, general introversion, and fear of divers social diseases and/or emotional entanglements prevents me from seeking out the attentions of “friends with benefits,” so casual sex with near strangers is pretty much out as a stress reliever too.   What worked when I was 25 (and even what I wish would have worked when I was 25, i.e. casual sex, hell- even formal sex would be an improvement over none) will not work now, unless I want to wake up dead.  I’ve watched far too many episodes of Dr G and /or 1000 Ways to Die.  Although I know death is inevitable, and might even be preferable to some situations I’ve lived through, I don’t want to earn a Darwin Award in the process of dying.

I mean, who really wants a epitaph that says:

Here lies a feisty old tart/Who messed around with all the old farts/She partied and drank, the nasty old skank/Till the excitement exploded her heart

My idea of excitement is when I put my old Journey videos in the DVD player so I can drool over 30 year old visuals of Steve Perry.   That’s about all I can take.

Then again, the more I think about it,  it might not be too bad to come and go at the same time, except it may be a bit morbid for the other party involved.  I mean, what would the surviving partner do?  Call the squad or cut out the middle man and call the morgue directly? 

Reagan would have had enough sense to avoid such a situation, so that appears to be a good response.  I could also ask the Magic 8 Ball, whose response to the question, “Should I find myself a fine young boy toy?,” is “Outlook Not So Good.”

No shit.  If you’re going to go fishing, you have to have the appropriate bait.  I am genuinely afraid of what my sorry carcass would reel in.

Usually I don’t resort to gratituous self pity as a defense mechanism, but I’ve been sort of down lately.  Being busier than hell usually helps because it keeps my mind occupied and out of mischief for the most part, but the reality remains the same.

There are a few things, as usual, weighing on my mind that are dragging me down.

1. My illustrious offspring has spawned.  The spawning was NOT planned.  This is scary on many levels, especially knowing that he likely carries a boatload of dormant bad genes- just from my side of the family.   I shudder to speculate on the scary things that could be lying dormant from the sperm donor’s family. The poor child has the potential for some very scary looks, including red hair, extremely blond hair, curly hair, extreme shortness, and troll-like proportions to name a few.  The fact that he is neither married to the baby mama or gainfully employed is even more frightening.  The baby is due in late February/early March- the suckiest time of year to have a birthday.   No one will remember it, and even if they do, everyone’s still broke from Christmas, so the poor child will get shitty birthday presents if he/she gets any at all.  I know.  My birthday is 2-26.  One year all I got was a box of Whoppers and a quarter to spend in the vending machine at the Revco.  Most years everyone just forgets.

2. This means I’m officially a grandmother- not like with Jerry’s grandkids who everyone knows are way too old to actually be my grandkids.  I don’t care if they call me Grandma or Hey You Funky Lady- I don’t have a problem treating them like grandkids.  They’re remarkably normal kids, and the good part is that at the end of the day they go home, but most people can figure out that it’s highly unlikely that a 42 year old would actually have a thirteen year old grandson.  His daughter is 30.   I was lucky to have gotten busy the few times in my life that I’ve had the opportunity.  I sure as hell wasn’t getting any action when I was 12 or younger.  With Steve-o everyone can work out the logistics.  Your mother has had sex four times in the past 25 years – Guess which occasion resulted in spawning you?  This means if DNA proves the child to be his…I certainly can’t deny it.



Jerry of course has his own (highly annoying) responses to stress, i.e., seeing downing a 12 pack of Natties as a physical challenge and then getting hyper (normal people pass out, but no such luck) and trying to “clean.”  The problem with Jerry’s cleaning rampages is that they are uncannily like Mom’s manic cleaning rages of yesteryear.  I do not find this late night cleaning compulsion to be nostalgic in any sort of positive way.  I loathed being awakened to scrub the toilet in the middle of the night as a child, and I have no desire as a cougar-aged woman to unclog the dog hair from the vacuum cleaner at 9PM.  Just because Jerry thinks that housecleaning at bedtime is an appropriate and satisfying activity when I’ve been awake and busy since 4AM does not mean that my mind and/or body are going to agree with that.  He is fortunate I didn’t rip his face off, but I’ve either mellowed out in my cougardom or I was just too tired to put up much of a fight.  Option two is most likely.  Arguing with a drunk is just about as effective as nailing Jello to a tree anyway.

Note to self: remember to vacuum when he’s either sober or not home so he doesn’t attempt to use it and clog it up with those damned cigarette pack cellophanes he leaves all over creation.

My class reunion dinner is fast approaching, and I’ve already paid for it, so I am curious to see who shows up.  I sense a bit of nostalgia- and a desire to see a few old acquaintances- but an even more overwhelming sense of “stop and gawk,” which is the phenomenon here in beautiful Central Ohio that occurs when there’s a car wreck on the freeway. Oncoming traffic slows up simply because everyone wants to stop and gawk.   You don’t really want to look, but you really want to look.   I hope that for $30 it will be a nice dinner, anyway.  It will be an excuse to get out for a bit anyway.



Spare me from the ’80’s hair!

BIG TRUCK, LITTLE PENIS- and if I had a Big Dick, I Wouldn’t Need this Corvette

“Now all they need is one (non magnetic, of course) for Corvette owners. Something to the effect of, “If I Had a Big Dick I Wouldn’t Need This Corvette”
These giant magnetic bumper stickers are ideal pranks to pull on truck owners.
I worked in Chevy dealerships, and very quickly learned to loathe Corvette owners.  Truck guys- even the ones with the jacked up and modified monstrosities- were never as obnoxious as Corvette owners.  I never encountered a group of automotive enthusiasts who are both cheap and incredibly fussy at the same time.  The attitude goes like this, “I want it perfect, I want it NOW, and what’s my discount?”
When I had the authority to set the Corvette owners’ “discount,” it was usually something like list + 50, which means regular retail plus 50% of regular retail.  So if list price was $100, I would quote them $150.  They got a pretty hefty surcharge for being a royal pompous pain in my ass.
Fussy owners in the automotive fancy are nothing new.  I have dealt with truck owners (usually not too terrible) including Land Cruiser enthusiasts, who, while fussy, were some of my favorites to deal with.  The major difference between Land Cruiser owners and Corvette owners is that a Land Cruiser owner wants it perfect and wants it NOW, AND is willing to pay for “perfect” and “NOW.”  I always loved Land Cruiser owners when I worked in Toyota dealerships.  They’re fussy and demanding, yes, but they don’t mind paying for the privilege.
I have to state that yes, there are guys who compensate for their tiny johnsons with excessive horsepower.  I’ve seen it, and it isn’t pretty.  I really could care less how big your truck is if you’re the poster child for ED,and/or if you are a tightwad, and/or your hair is held on with double faced tape.  Show me a guy who drives a Prius and isn’t self conscious about it, and he’s probably quite comfortable in his masculinity.  Then again, so are the lesbians who don’t shave their legs and have stopped using soap.  They are really comfortable in their truckers’ wallets and their masculinity.  That’s a pretty scary crowd too, especially when the technicians make commentary on the pit hair of the one wearing the tank top.  I didn’t need to know that “she”? has longer pit hair than all three technicians combined.  TMI.  Acck.  Excessive body hair is bad enough on men.  It’s positively revolting on women.


“I have to say I enjoy this sign, especially considering the amount of TP that magically disappears in my house. “
These hilarious and rude prank signs are sure to stop people in their tracks!
I wonder if I got a few of these and posted them in fast food bathrooms shitters if anyone would read and heed. 
I seriously doubt it.  Then again, who were those nut jobs who were entreating the entire world to forgo the use of toilet paper in favor of using reusable cloths?  There’s a reason why most people in the Western world refuse to use cloth diapers, and it’s the same reason why most people in the Western world aren’t going to start washing out their butt wipes any time soon.  Nobody wants to touch shit- with the exception of certain sicko fetishists. 
I don’t consider myself to be a militant environmentalist.  For the most part the greenies are annoying and hypocritical (it’s really easy to be eco-friendly when you have loads of cash and other people to do your dirty work for you) and many of their supposed “eco-friendly” practices are either harmful to the environment or don’t make a damned bit of difference.  Some conservation practices are prudent and save money, such as driving a fuel efficient car, freezing meals ahead, planting a home garden and other practical projects that involve reducing and reusing existing resources, but toilet paper?  Granted it’s not necessary to use half a roll every time you drop a deuce, but come on.
Should I impose a three square limit?  Oh, the humanity.
Oh, the fudged undies…

I Thought I’d Have a Bit More Time, and Other Famous Last Thoughts

I knew it would happen eventually.  I hoped for more time, not so much for me, but for the illustrious POMC to finish school and to already be gainfully employed and independent from the parental units before informing me that I am soon to be a grandmother.  Really.

I also hoped that he would be married to the baby mama at that point too, but at least he didn’t fertilize either Jezebel or Psycho Chick (his two previous girlfriends) and he’s been in a fairly stable relationship with the baby mama.

Marriage and employment aside, this potential train wreck could be a lot worse.

I can’t say that I’m angry.  I’m not angry.  I’ve been there.  Steve-o wasn’t planned either.  Life happens and life is messy with all the details and you have to work your way through.  Having a child at age 20 (and she’s 18 for heaven’s sake) is no easy endeavor.  Far be it from me to add fuel to the fire and make a hard situation even more difficult.  Hearing my critique and commentary isn’t going to make anything better. No sense in shutting the barn door once the horse is already out.  Steve-o at least wants to be a man and be a dad to his child- and I will do whatever I can to back him up with that.  He’s seen too many of his friends in situations where their babies’ mothers don’t want them around and one thing Steve-o does want is for his kid to have a mom and a dad and for him to actively participate in his family’s life.  I hope he means what he says, and I think he does.  After all, his sperm donor wasn’t particularly interested in him.  He knows what it’s like.  The thought of his own child having a dad who doesn’t care is particularly repulsive to him- as it should be.

Dad is pissed.  Dad will be pissed for a few more days until he finally realizes the futility of attempting to shut the barn door and then he will come around.  His desire to see and have contact with his first great-grandchild will win out.   I do think the whole parenting dimension will make it more challenging for Steve-o to finish school and make something of himself, but it will no means be impossible.  Steve-o does have an incredible talent for doing what he needs to do when he really wants to do it.  Will he care enough about his offspring to do so?  Only time will tell, but he certainly doesn’t need my cynicism and despondency to get in his way.

I was sort of surprised at Mom’s reaction.  She wasn’t thrilled, but she wasn’t nearly as pissy as Dad.   I know she’s pissed at Steve-o for not keeping his business in his pants, but I don’t think she’s completely disappointed at the prospect of a new baby.  Life is life and things happen for a reason.  Some people try and try to conceive and can’t- or some people, like me, could only have one child.

Of course, in my elderly cougardom the only thing keeping me from rehydration via party keg is that alcohol wreaks havoc with my blood sugar and with my blood pressure meds.  I am thankful in a dark sort of way that I am not going to have to endure all the pregnancy discomforts- a sort of  “better thee than me” scenario.  I already have vintage stretch marks and a lovely c-section scar (recently accompanied by its parallel hysterectomy scar)  that haven’t gone anywhere in 20+ years.  Even if I still had the necessary equipment I am way too old for that noise.  I am going to refrain from sharing the Murphy’s Law as it Pertains to the Childbirth from Hell story with them.  Some things are better left unshared, especially with a very young couple that has just been enlightened as to the existence of a third party.

I’ll have to be the poor sucker out there scouting about for baby clothes and other stuff they’re going to need.  At least I am not the one having to go through the endless succession of prenatal visits, weight gain, having to pee every ten minutes, and of course, the Birth Experience which she is going to want to be heavily medicated for, especially if their baby weighs almost 10# like Steve-o did.  She will want to rip off his nuts.

Lord have mercy.  They are going to need it.



Support Bras and Sensible Shoes, an Air of Pervasive Misanthropy- with a Metallica Soundtrack

As much as I try to fight it, I am becoming my mother, at least in appearance.  As much as I wish I could look like Demi Moore, on a good day I might pass for a 55 year old mutant troll.   I’ve had more than one person ask me if I was my mother’s sister.  Never mind that I’m 42, and Mom is 22 years older than me.  I know I’ve been rode hard and put away wet throughout this adventure of life, but I sort of wish I might have aged just a little bit better.  The years have not been kind.

Long ago I became resigned to the fact that it’s in my best interest to dress for comfort,  not for speed.  For those of us with ample chests, (38D) bra shopping consists of two goals- find a bra that will hold the puppies firmly and comfortably without fail, even when bending over, AND that doesn’t leave divots in one’s shoulders.  These bras are practical but not generally pretty.  Victoria’s Secret is that they don’t have bras that meet this criteria.   I spent way too many years in my vanity dealing with scratchy underwire bras that left divots in my shoulders and would allow the puppies to fly out every time I bent over.  These days I like the heavy duty beauty hold ’em up in a hurricane type bras- the kind my grandmother (also endowed with the 38Ds) preferred. She was a lingerie buyer for a department store and could at least could get good deals on the stuff.  I either have to wait for the clearance sales- or pay retail, which I am loathe to do for anything.  I hate to pay retail.

The shoe reality is harder for me to deal with.  I used to wear at least a three inch heel (if not a five inch stiletto) every freaking day, working and standing on concrete and it never bothered me.  Now it almost has to be a special occasion for me to wear a two inch wedge.  I’m still only 5’4″, provided I’ve not shrunk with age, so I still need the height boost.  It’s not as if I have a hard to fit foot- I wear a 7B and the only issue I ever encounter with shoes is that I have a high instep.  Boots and certain over-the-instep styles can be a bit of a challenge, but generally if the shoe is true to size I’m good to go.  I order shoes online quite often with no difficulty. I don’t have as big a problem with trying on shoes in public as I do with clothes (I never, ever, ever disrobe for the perverts charged with monitoring public fitting rooms) but I’d still rather buy my shoes online.  It saves me time and the aggravation of cavorting around amidst the unwashed hordes.

I just ordered some five inch platform sandals which I am going to wear come hell or high water (a good fashion choice in high water, heh-heh) because I paid good money for them, and because sometimes it’s fun to mess with Dad.  If I wear more than a two inch heel, I’m taller than him.

For daily wear, though, I find myself gravitating less toward five inch platforms and more toward Crocs sandals or Skechers Toners.  I don’t have to wear dress clothes to work. We don’t see customers face to face, so our dress code can be summed up as, “just as long as the nasty bits are covered.”  Since I don’t have to wear dress clothes,  I like the “toning shoes.”  I figure if I have to walk anyway, might as well get as much exercise as I can with each step.  This way I am more motivated to walk so I can get more stealth exercise. I am not much for doing a whole lot of walking in heels. 

I’m sure that a casual observer would think it strange that the matronly looking old cougar driving a car with hot pink Hello Kitty stickers all over it, who looks like someone’s grandma, is usually jamming to assorted hard rock and heavy metal.  I got a really bizarre look the other day from some teen punks when I had Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box” cranked up full blast on the HK Yaris’ stereo when I pulled in to park in the Kroger’s parking lot.   Just because I’m old does not mean I am resigned to Lawrence Welk, Barbra Streisand (accckkkk!) and elevator music.  My only regret is that I wasn’t listening to something a bit more edgy, such as Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noise,” or Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train.”

I’m every bit the headbanger I was back in the day even though I (sadly) sold the Gibson Victory Artist (yes, they are legendary, and yes I actually had one) and the Marshall full stack years ago.  I enjoyed singing and playing bass, but the reality is that very few people ever get to a place where they can support themselves by playing music.  Sometimes practical concerns have to win out, such as being gainfully employed and supporting oneself, but it was fun while it lasted.  I was a good player and a good singer, but I have to admit I don’t have the image.  Nobody cares how well you play or sing if you don’t have the stage presence.  Audiences want you to give ’em something to look at, and I’ve never been much to look at.  Maybe that’s why most female musicians who have done well for themselves have done it on their looks and not necessarily on their talent.  There’s a lot of very nice looking but horribly mediocre female singers out there who are making the big bucks.  You can be a very good singer, but look like a mutant troll- and you end up selling automotive parts. 

1982 Gibson Victory Artist…drooolll… mine looked exactly like this, with the sunburst pattern and everything.   I bought mine ever so slightly used (almost pristine) for $800 back in 1985 which was an unheard of sum to pay for an instrument, especially when considering my first car- yes it was a POS but it ran- was only $400.  Today you would not be able to touch a functional Victory Artist- in which the active EQ and pickups work as they should- for under $1000.   Awesome instrument except for one minor detail- it was in no way light on the shoulders. Gibson stopped making them in 1986, probably because they were incredibly expensive for the day, ($2000 for a new Victory Artist with all the toys, in 1985) and Gibson wasn’t exactly making money in the dismal economic times of the early ’80’s selling high line instruments.  One could buy a Washburn bass that was decent and almost as effortless to play, for less than half the price- but Gibson’s craftsmanship is legendary.  If I were into vintage instruments, and/or if I seriously wanted to start playing bass again, I would have to scrounge me another one- but (sad as it sounds) playing bass isn’t terribly high on my list of things I really need to do right now.  Playing an instrument well takes a lot of time and practice, and the equipment needed to play is not inexpensive.  Finding others interested in forming a band and getting any kind of venues in which to play would also be a formidable task . More importantly, I seriously wonder if my wrists and fingers could tolerate it, especially considering all the typing I have to do in the course of a day.  When I sold the Artist in 1994 I was at a point where I could only play comfortably for 15-20 minutes at a time and really had to push it to make it through a two hour set.  What’s the point of playing music if it’s painful?  I have arthritis in virtually every part of my body that has cartilage in it, thanks to a childhood bout of rheumatic fever- the gift that keeps on destroying- and a young adulthood of taking everything just a little too far.  My hands and wrists are in bad enough shape already without bothering to put all that extra stress on them.

Oh, well.  I like being comfortably obscure from the safety of my ivory tower, watching the wheels go around when I can stay still long enough, and entertaining myself by watching the ongoing devolution of humanity.

“For Whom the Bell Tolls” indeed.

 It’s oddly comforting to know that all the rock/metal artists I admire are older than me.