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!

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