Month: February 2012

Greetings from Nattyvana- Wish You Were Here!- and Sometimes The Possum Really is Dead

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Nattyvana: That drunk-and-stupid state of mind one reaches after consuming a 12 pack or more of Jerry’s favorite Anheuser-Busch product- Natural Lite.

Never mind that Natty is only 4.2% alcohol. Never mind, but I can only imagine that horse piss has more flavor.  It is a “value priced” beer after all.  It takes persistence, but if you drink enough of it, you can get shitfaced.   Personally if my aim were to get shitfaced, I’d go for something with a lot more punch, like Jägermeister (35%- 70 proof)- if you can get past the fact it tastes just like Formula 44-  or just plain straight vodka (Stolichnaya is 40% or 80 proof.) 

To me drinking beer to get drunk is like driving through the ghetto to get to work.  You’ll get there eventually, but it takes longer, smells worse, and carries a higher element of danger than taking the freeway.  I don’t like the taste of beer anyway.  Natty isn’t the worst beer out there (take it from someone who used to party with people who drank Schaefer Light) but it’s pretty nasty even for beer.   It’s chock full of all-natural formaldehyde, with a wispy aroma vaguely reminscent of onion-tainted sweat socks and a despondent resignation to a life of obscurity and ignominy.  Whether or not Natural Lite is derived from anything “natural” I don’t know.  I do know that “all-natural” does not always mean “beneficial” or “healthy.”

All-Natural Ways to Die (for instance)

*Arsenic is an all-natural heavy-metal poison. (not to be confused with the 80’s heavy-metal band, Poison, though I can cite far better examples of that music genre)

*Ebola is an all-natural deadly virus.

*Black Mamba venom is an all-natural venomous poison.

*You can be eaten by an all-natural shark, should you choose to go into the water.

*You can be mauled and partially devoured by an all-natural grizzly bear.

*You can fall off of an all-natural cliff, or asphyxiate on all-natural bat guano fumes in an all-natural bat cave.

If you’re a possum, you can have the (mostly) all-natural Lilo the GSD/Chow mix snap your neck for you.

I’m glad I don’t get drunk anymore, if only because I have to be somewhat aware and sane to handle stuff like this.  The dogs do occasionally bring home some rather grisly finds. 

I really do feel sorry for the woodland creatures who dare to venture into our back yard.  This I think is probably Possum #4 for Lilo.  Her possum kill rate is rather surprising given that Lilo is 1. crosseyed, 2. bow-legged, and 3. slow.  Yet Lilo (unlike most dogs) is primarily an ambush hunter.  She lies in wait and then springs on her prey when they are unaware.  Clara and Sheena hunt like regular dogs- flushing and chasing.  Perhaps Lilo has had success with possums because they too are slow and low to the ground and can’t see that well.  I still feel sorry for the critters, though.

This poor unfortunate beast was immobile but still appeared to be breathing when Lilo deposited it in front of the kitchen door.  Jerry assumed that it was simply “playing possum” and acting dead so he scooped it up and put it back outside.  Sadly I found it the following morning, deader than a doornail.  Apparently it wasn’t just an act, or it was too badly injured to recover.  I tried to tell Jerry that I thought Lilo had snapped its neck, but hope springs eternal.  I was hoping she hadn’t mortally wounded it. If it did wake up I wanted it to be outside in its natural habitat, so if it were just stunned or playing possum it wouldn’t be waking up out in the foyer.  That’s all I need, some wild critter staring up at me with a mouthful (possums have 50 teeth- 8 more than dogs- which is a scary thought) of razor sharp teeth snarling at me as I’m trying to let the dogs out for their morning constitutional.

I very seldom drink anyway, and when I do, I drink wine, because I like the taste of wine.  Just a small glass will take me on a trip to mellow town. I don’t need to get shitfaced on it.  The last time I was truly shitfaced was almost 20 years ago, and I have no desire to wake up submerged in freezing water in a motel room bathtub with a half-eaten Domino’s pizza sitting on the ledge. 

It’s good that my health pretty much forbids me from doing much drinking.  I’m on enough blood pressure meds to kill most people outright, so I usually fall asleep before I can really start pounding ’em.  When I did drink to excess, back in the day, I was a forget-it-all drunk.  All I remember about one drinking party I went to in college was that yes- I did finish the whole fifth of MD 20/20, but I couldn’t remember whether or not I had slept with one of my friends’ skanky, geeky twin brother.  Nobody would enlighten me as to whether or not he had gotten lucky either- not until after I knew the coast was clear.  Since I had given up hope and let my birth control pill script run out, I had a rather harrowing two weeks of “waiting for Aunt Flo.”  Once everyone knew I was “safe”-then they told me what really happened- that he had passed out before I did, so I was never even subjected to the possibility of actually contributing to passing on that particular freakazoid’s genes.  Thanks, guys.  But at least they didn’t leave me passed out with my drawers down and my butt hanging out of the bathtub like what happened to one of my other friends.  When you weigh over 300# it is never a good thing to pass out on the toilet, especially if that’s the only toilet in the house.  Just saying.

It’s a lot safer to observe and let everyone else get drunk and stupid.  If only there had been such a thing as YouTube in the mid-80’s.  It’s probably a good thing that we were too poor for video cameras back then.

Happy Lupercalia!, (Remember Our Lupine Friends) and Staying Off the Beaten Path

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Ok , so Clara is a dog.  So why am I talking about an ancient Roman pagan holiday that celebrates the wolf?  The Latin word for wolf is lupus (yes, this is where the horrible disease, lupus, got its name, because it ravages those afflicted much as a wolf ravages its prey.) The taxonomic name for dog is canis lupus familiaris.  – loosely translated- the house wolf.  Canis lupus lupus (if you want to discern between sub-species) is the grey wolf.

Most people are blissfully unaware that domestic dogs and grey wolves are the same species.  Same DNA.  Though humans have done some pretty damned bizarre things with the dog in the 15,000 or so years that they have been domesticated, the DNA is still there.  Because dogs have a large number of chromosomes (78) and a tendency toward frequent mutations due to the phenomenon of  tandem repeats, there is a tremendous amount of variation in appearance and body characteristics- from the 1# ankle-biter to the 250# Mastiff.  But dogs are dogs (are also wolves…) which is useful knowledge.  We live with genetically engineered wolves.  In my alternatively wired way of thinking, that’s pretty effing cool. (Science, history and vocabulary lessons today- I’m on a roll!)

Obviously, we humans aren’t terribly good at determining who should and should NOT breed, even outside our own species.

Granted, humans have really screwed up a lot of things, but that’s just Murphy’s Law in action.   As far as dogs go, canine husbandry has both successes and tragic failures.  It’s sad that certain dog breeds are so modified that some can only give birth by c-section (many of the brachycephalic breeds) and others are prone to orthopedic issues (many of the large and giant breeds) while others are prone to devastating cancers.  Inbreeding, as well as breeding dogs that really aren’t suitable to be bred, have only contributed to the plethora of genetic diseases today’s dogs are subject to.

Even with all the fascinating scientific information available on genetics- and dogs are one of the most heavily studied animals in this regard- there are still infinite unknowns.   Breeding is simply setting the wheels in motion for a cosmic crap shoot.   The genetic difference between a Grand Champion, the neighborhood trash-snarfing cur, and the wild wolf out in the woods is infinitesimal.  So eugenics for our canine friends really is what it is for everything else- some science, some art, and a whole lot of blind luck.  Some of us do well in the genetic lottery (and a good breeder has strategies to sweeten the odds) but at the end of the day some of us do well, and others not so much.

 To quote Forrest Gump, “Life is a box of chocolates.  You never know which one you’re going to get.” 

I know Murphy’s Law, and it works pretty well with Newton’s Laws.  “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” (Newton)  Of course, Murphy’s Law can’t leave that one alone without adding a few corollaries such as:  “If nature makes you beautiful, nature will almost inevitably make you stupid,”  “Brains and coordination cannot inhabit the same body,” and, “If you expect him to use the laundry chute, be prepared to use the lawn mower.”

As much as I hate to admit it, (and as much as I really don’t like  touching the skanky Natty-splattered whitey-tighties that would end up lying all over the house) undies vs. lawn care is a pretty fair trade, at least in the summer.  I spend a good chunk of time playing seek and wash with Jerry’s clothes.  He will strip and drop clothing just about everywhere in the house, especially when he’s besnookered, making my laundry adventures begin with a maze!   It’s sort of like an Easter egg hunt only there’s no eggs- just soiled man-clothes. The process of retrieving Jerry’s clothes for wash-time also is reminiscent of searching through the Cracker Jack box.  There’s often a “prize” inside, such as cigarette butts and/or cellophanes, or massive skidmarks – living proof that sharting is real.  You want to be really careful which part of the garment you touch when picking it up.  Usually- though not every time- the waistbands escape unscathed.

Just an FYI: sharting shouldn’t be attempted whilst wearing any sort of garment, and shouldn’t be attempted at all unless your drawers are down and your butt is firmly planted on the commode.

Of course there are a number of things one should really think twice about doing.  Such as this:

“A” for creativity, but “F” for future opportunities to fornicate.  There’s something about a visual of a cat’s ass on your lover’s front area (with the belly button serving a dual purpose as the bunghole no less!) that might just be a little off-putting.

I guess for me it is easier to celebrate a holiday dedicated to the canines (and lupines- same thing) of the world than to ruminate on and on about sappy romantic platitudes. 

I get to go home and hug the dogs!  As I told a friend of mine, I do have something to look forward to tonight.  Jerry’s out of Natties- and if there is any justice in this world he should be good and miserable from last night’s drunk and stupid foray into Nattyvana, and I have three beautiful dogs waiting for me to get home.

Ohio is Not a Tropical Paradise, (So Put on Some Pants,) the Second Amendment, and Navigational Exploits

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For the past five years or so, and most especially for the year or thereabouts following my hysterectomy, I have been somewhat plagued with hot flashes.  At times they have been so severe that I have found myself completely drenched in sweat and burning up for no apparent reason.   Since my Dr.s expressly forbid me to take any kind of hormone replacement, given my history, I have to deal with it.  I’ve been tempted at times to sit in the freezer, I often (even in winter) use a small table fan at night, and it has to be extremely cold for me to even entertain the idea of wearing a sweater or heavy shirt.   Over the past year or so my heat sensitivity has improved somewhat, but even now I am more likely to overheat than to freeze.  The only exception to this is my hands.  My hands still freeze very easily even if the rest of my body is burning up.  Go figure.

Even given the inconvenience of menopausal heat sensitivity, I can’t bring myself to wear shorts outside in the winter.  Every time I see young punks outside in shorts- even the Bermuda type- and/or flip-flops when it’s below freezing, I really have to wonder.  I know damned well the girls are too young for menopause and the boys don’t really have any excuse other than maybe the man-fur on their legs does something as far as insulation, but I doubt it.

Despite the wistful imaginings of the global warming crowd, Ohio is not a tropical paradise.  Maybe for three months out of the year we have near-tropical weather, as in stygian heat, 100% humidity and plenty of rain, but it’s not year-round.   The remainder of the year is still 100% humidity, and plenty of precipitation, but cold, and at times that precipitation is freezing rain or snow.

The lesson in this:  It’s February.  Put on some damned pants.  At least until the end of May, when it might actually be warmer than fifty degrees.  I blame Target for putting the bathing suits out in January.  Just because it’s currently on the store shelf does not mean that it’s the appropriate clothing item for the season.

Some clothing items are never appropriate, regardless of the season. 

Yesterday I was reminded of why I very seldom go on shopping excursions with Jerry.  I hate shopping anyway, and I loathe crowds.  I am surprised I volunteered myself into that one, but he always likes it better if I drive.  It’s always better for him if it’s my car and my gasoline, and me driving, for two reasons.  One, my car gets far better mileage than his truck, and two, I am less likely to get lost.   He refuses to drive my car (good for me in the grand scheme of things, as I really don’t like anyone driving my car) because I have a concealed carry permit.  If the cops would pull him over in my car, they would run the plate and assume that there are weapons in the vehicle.  It is also likely that anyone driving my car would be approached by the cops at gunpoint, which would really freak him out.   I know if I’m pulled over that I’m supposed to put my hands on the wheel and let the cop know whether or not I’m packing, but Jerry has been known to get lippy with cops, which is never a good idea, even if you’re right.  A good friend once told me that there are two good reasons why you won’t overpower, outsmart, or outrun cops: Smith & Wesson and Motorola.  One cop is always going to be armed, and one cop always has that nice little radio to call for backup.  It’s better to comply with their requests and figure out the details later.

I’ve never been a fan of gun control.  I’ve never been a fan of government absolving people from the consequences of their poor decisions either, but what do I know?  If the government seems to think that encouraging stupidity as well as shielding people from the consequences of their own stupidity, have suddenly become civil rights, then I guess it is a good idea (for the law-abiding, rational person) to be armed and to protect oneself even if it is necessary to go through some red tape and hoop jumping.  Thankfully the Framers of the Constitution were a lot smarter than the current crop of jackoffs holding office, and- at least for now- the Second Amendment still stands.  I could go on for days on this particular tangent, but I’m not going to.  Unlike a good number of politicians, I’ve read the Constitution.  I believe I have a pretty solid understanding of it. If you take your time and sift through some of the archaic language, it’s not terribly difficult to understand.  Government has responsibilities, but more importantly it is supposed to have boundaries. 

The weather was quite cold and windy yesterday, but it was sunny for a change,  so I had to deal with both Jerry’s waywardness and unduly crowded stores.  By the time we got home I was thoroughly worn out not so much from walking or driving, but by chasing Jerry about and weaving in and out of crowded aisles and displays.  Jerry is not terribly easy to keep track of, as he is prone to wander off and then I am not only manuevering my way through the crowds but I’m trying to find him as well.  It’s a sort of a twisted three dimensional version of “Where’s Waldo,” only it’s “Where’s Jerry,” and unlike Waldo, he keeps moving.

If I could I would get Jerry one of those kid leashes specifically for shopping excursions or times when I have to take him out in public and I know it will be difficult to retrieve him.  It’s a thought.  Or I could modify one of the Flexi leashes we have for the dogs.

Sheena for President, Felon of the Week, and Bizarre Holidays

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I have ruminated on it before. Even though she is a tad bit mentally challenged, and she has yet to be nominated, Sheena should run for President.  Nothing in the Constitution specifically forbids dogs from holding office, although I could see two sticky points.  She is not 35 years old (not even in dog years, though I don’t know exactly how old she is,) and she doesn’t have a birth certificate.  But other than not being able to prove her age or citizenship status (the nebulous origins of the current POTUS’ vital documentation didn’t seem to stop him) Sheena is supremely qualified to hold public office.  She is free of sordid scandals, but is expert in digging up others’ trash.  She does have a current Franklin County dog license,  and a current rabies tag, which ought to count for something. 

As I was trolling the Marion (OH) news station’s website seeking Buckeye Chuck’s latest weather prediction, (I was sort of bored this morning) I entertained myself by checking out the other features on the site and came upon the Featured Felon of the Week page.  Sort of like TruTV, but closer to home, with fuglier mug shots.  Since I spent the first 25 years of my life in Marion, I was pleasantly surprised not to have known any of the felons pictured.

I still have to ask, who smiles for a mug shot?  Are you stoned, or have you confused jail with the BMV?  I know driver’s license pics generally resemble mug shots, but come on.  Maybe you’re just happy to have three hots and a cot for ten days and a bit of time away from your drunken old man, but I can’t see  felony charges and/or jail time as “things to smile about.”  I just don’t have that kind of optimism.

Even in this “enlightened” 21st century we entertain some pretty bizarre traditions.  Groundhog Day is one of my favorite holidays – because you don’t have to buy anything or do anything other than inquire on the prognostications of a large rodent that puts me in mind of a hairy armadillo.  Buckeye Chuck didn’t see his shadow this time around, so in theory this means we are in for an early spring.  Or not.  Who really gives a rat’s ass- or should I say a groundhog’s ass? Central Ohio doesn’t really get spring anyway.  The weather goes straight from Snowbooger Grey to Monsoon to Stygian Heat.

I also have to wonder about another February holiday- Valentine’s Day.  St. Valentine supposedly was a martyr sacrificed by the Romans back in the third century.  The tradition is that he was martyred for marrying young Christian couples – therefore the hoo-hah about celebrating love and all that.  I have to wonder, since tradition also holds that he was beheaded, where we came up with the heart business for Valentine’s Day.  Why not a dismembered head?  Maybe decapitated heads are too closely associated with Halloween, but so are disembodied hearts, and the Aztecs and Mayans had the jump on pulling hearts out of live bodies even before the Romans discovered decapitation.  I can, however, see the connection between love and decapitation and/or evisceration.  So it works in a weird kind of way, though I can’t figure chocolate into it at all.

The old Roman holiday, Lupercalia, that was once celebrated on February 14 is rather interesting.  Let’s all worship the Wolf God?  Dog sacrifice?  I don’t think so.

St. Patrick’s day is the next weird holiday that I don’t completely get.  What does green beer have to do with converting people to Catholicism? Do I really want to know?  I know the Irish like to drink, but whiskey would make more sense.

Twisted Ann Landers, (Why Are You Asking Me?) and Suffering Fools- Begrudgingly

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Some days are meant just to catch up and ruminate – and others to indulge others’ laziness and/or stupidity. I thought this morning that today might be the first of those choices, (and I enjoy the rare delight of not being overly pestered or rushed,) but I am finding out very quickly that it’s going to be one of those days I spend thinking for and pointing out the obvious for others because they are unwilling to think for themselves, or are incapable of thinking, and/or of discerning the obvious for themselves. 

I’ve said it before.  I am certainly no rocket scientist.  I’m lucky to get out the door with all the crap I need for one day.  I forget things, misplace things, and I find that most of the time I am more reactive than proactive.  As far as examples go, everyone is an example of something, and for the most part my example is a cautionary tale of, “What Not to Do.”   As far as “What Not to Do” goes, I could write a book.  Maybe I should.

So who died and made me some sort of twisted Ann Landers, whose advice is sought in matters ranging from things automotive (while I am not the final authority by any means, at least I do have some experience and expertise in this field) to relationships (really good to ask advice on interpersonal relationships from someone with Asperger’s who borders on being both agoraphobic and antisocial) to (and this is the kicker) “Where the Hell Did I Put My Stuff?”  As far as relationships go, asking me advice would be about as effective as asking the guys who built the Titanic to engineer you an unsinkable boat.  I am not the right person to find anyone else’s stuff, either.  Half the time I can’t find my own.  I’m doing good to make it through the day without misplacing one of my three essentials- the cell phone, the Bluetooth, and the MP3 player.

One of my favorite tools when I am asked for advice is the Magic 8 Ball.  I have one.  They’re about $8 at Target- look in the toys and games.  I know, it’s a rather technologically primitive device  that dates back to the late 1940’s, but it is every bit as accurate as my advice on subjects outside the narrow areas of my expertise. 

Perhaps those around me don’t realize just how emotionally stunted I am, or maybe they ask my opinion because most of the time I make decisions based on practicality and utility- or expediency.  I have worked very hard my entire life to compensate for my weaknesses, but there are some areas in which I am just plain inept no matter how hard I try.  Anything involving gross motor coordination- forget it.  I do good to walk in a straight line without tripping or falling down.  As far as social interaction goes, I am always monitoring and second-guessing myself because I am not good at reading (or sending) non-verbals.  I can put on a good show if I need to, but it takes far too much conscious effort.  Imagine if you had to consciously think about and analyze your breathing.  This is the mental effort it takes for me in social situations.  The ability to socialize and converse face to face with people does not come naturally to me at all. 

So, by some strange twist of fate, who always seems to get elected to be the hospitality committee?  It’s like expecting the class midget to play center on the basketball team.

I’ve never seen myself as having anything but rudimentary (at best) social skills, but other people either don’t seem to notice or don’t seem to care.  Maybe I put on a better show than I thought.

Shakespeare said that “all the world’s a stage.”  The sad thing for me is that most of the time I want nothing more than to escape scrutiny and blend into the wall.  I seriously need to schedule a real vacation (root word: vacate, as in get out of Dodge) and get in some extreme ivory tower time before I start ripping people’s heads off.  Dealing with other people just plain wears me out.

I wouldn’t mind just camping out at home- sleeping, reading, writing, doing some cross-stitch, digging me some Tru-TV and jamming to some classic rock, except that I won’t be left alone to do those sorts of things.  I would end up being roped into errand-running, cleaning, and divers other activities that I don’t want to do.   I know I should put my foot down at times but I also  have to choose my battles.  As much as I hate to admit it, usually it’s easier to just do whatever so I don’t have to take the browbeating.

I have been challenged to refrain from making negative comments about Jerry for entire month of February.  I am sincerely going to try.  I admit, while he is challenging, I can be a rather harsh judge.  In some ways he deserves it, but I couldn’t be easy to live with either.