Irreverence is Underrated, the Pithy Humor of Youth, and Mid-Life Angst

I love this kid’s honesty.

In 100 years, statistics would have it that over 90% of people currently inhabiting the planet will be DEAD!  If one wants to keep citing statistics, the odds are 100% that I will be dead in 100 years.   Taking the Dirt Nap.  Sleeping the big sleep.  Not even the little old dudes in India and Russia have made it to 143.  I don’t think I want to be first for that.

I’m sure that in the near future near-immortality will be possible- technically- but let’s face it, that sort of engineering poses some moral questions.  I am not a big sci-fi fan.  The idea of living on as a disembodied computer program and then being deposited into a manufactured body as presented in the reanimation scenarios on the Science Channel show Through the Wormhole  is downright creepy.

Now if I could engineer the body, that would be intriguing.  If I could be about 6′ tall, weigh about 120, and have the perfect man-bait model bod, I could have some fun.  However, being the sexy vixen would take some upgrading to the motor centers of my brain as well as a full body upgrade.  What’s the point of being man-bait if you fall all over yourself and spill crap on your sexy clothes?  It’s no tragedy to spill coffee all over the clothes I bought at Goodwill or off the Target clearance rack, but to spill coffee all over designer duds, or twist my ankles and break the heels off of high faluting stilettos?  That would suck.

What’s really bad is I thought this was Steven Tyler for a minute.  My bad.

Today’s body-mod technology is scary.  I couldn’t afford cosmetic surgery in my wildest dreams, and even if I had the scratch I’d be loathe to actually do it.  The only plastic surgery that seems to be effective, at least most of the time, is breast enlargement, which I need like a hole in the head.  38Ds are enough for anyone.  Keeping them from moving any further south is my ongoing objective.  The things that are wrong with my appearance aren’t fixable.  Short arms, short legs and bad proportions don’t fix.

I’ve had major surgeries.  It takes a long time to recover.  Knowing my luck I would end up looking even worse than when they first started, or I’d get MRSA or something and die an excruciating and macabre death from it.  I think I’ll reserve surgical intervention for the truly necessary things, until they can do surgery like on Star Trek– where they scan you with a high faluting electronic box and you’re magically healed, with no blood or incisions or anything.

Implanting my brain into a super-body is probably not going to happen.  So you do what you can with what you have.

If all else fails, be glad you can “P” !

I’m surprised this teacher didn’t give the kid a gold star for being able to perform bodily functions, as much as the schools have been dumbed down.  Personally I have to admire his weisenheimer attitude even if the teacher’s dreadfully politically correct response sort of dampens the effect.  “Best self?”  What kind of happy horseshit is that?  Would he be a “better self” if, like Beavis and Butthead, he forgot how to pee?

Then again,

It’s fun to screw with others.

Just in case anyone is curious, I found this an interesting assignment too.

I’m Not Running the Train, Which is Fine With Me, and Crap-n-Go

I’m not sure who wrote this little piece of poetry, but the railroad analogy is fitting.

When I was about four years old, Dad had a friend who was into amateur photography.  Given that this was 1973 (long, long before the days of digital photography) and having any kind of pictures taken was expensive, Dad jumped on the chance to take me and my sisters to this guy’s house to have our pictures taken.  Joy and rapture.

I don’t remember a whole lot about it other than having to wear a purple polyester pantsuit that was hotter than hell and itched something fierce and even worse, matched the ones my sisters were wearing.  Grandma had made these pantsuits.  They were ghastly according to today’s standards, but would have been fashionable in 1973.  They would have been a lot more comfortable had they been made of a breathable fabric, but sorry about my luck. To make it even less comfortable, we also had to wear these little black patent mary janes (not rubber-soled, of course) with itchy white lace socks.   I ended up with a nasty heat rash from wearing this ensemble, I do remember that.

Anyway, the guy with the high faluting camera also had another high faluting toy out in his yard for his own kids- an electric train on tracks that kids could ride on.  We were poor kids, and whatever good toys we had access to were immediately commandeered by my sadistic oldest sister.  I got toys after she and my other sister and usually the dog too, had destroyed them.  I had never seen any kids’ toy as cool as that train, ever.

My sisters were more worried about chasing down and beating up the two boys who lived there, which meant I had the train all to my own happy self.  Since I was none too thrilled about a.) wearing this horrifically hot and itchy pantsuit in the middle of August,  b.) having my picture taken, c.) having to be around both strange people and my sisters, I decided to stay on the train.  That was fun- and there was a bit of a breeze.  Suffice to say that Mom and Dad both had their hands full with peeling my sisters off those poor boys, so I got a good bit of time on the train.  So much so that the guy took quite a few pics of me on the train.  No, I’ve not bothered to scan the pics. I don’t want to ask Mom to borrow them long enough to scan them.  Even at four years old I was awkward and geeky and nearsighted as well as horribly dressed. It was the ’70’s after all.  I think I am permanently allergic to polyester after that.  I break out in heat rash just thinking about it.

That was the last time I technically got to run the train.  That’s fine with me.  It was fun while it lasted.

It could be worse.  Perhaps this is a creative way of selling a colonoscopy.  $999 would be a discount.

I have to wonder why sweepstakes and drawings are usually for something nobody really needs anyway.  Money, that’s cool, or even the $5000 Target gift card that I keep doing the surveys to get a chance to win.  But who really wants a lot of the crap that’s given away?

Coffee mugs are useful, but I’ve used the same one at home for 30 years.

Here’s some interesting marketing.  Looks like this guy’s selling an item that most people wouldn’t want to touch even if it has been soaked in Clorox for a month.

I live in the Midwest, where those of us who are into things like hot pink rubber fists tend to be a bit more discreet about it, so I don’t see ads like this every day.  It is a bit disturbing that a few of the phone number tags are missing, meaning that at least a few people entertained the idea of inquiring on this item.  I can just imagine an inquiring caller’s conversation regarding this lovely artifact:

“Hi, I’m Bruce, and I’d like to know more about your fabulous rubber fist!”

“Oh, yes, it’s just super!  But I have three others just like it and I really don’t need a fourth, you know. I only have so much room.”

Which brings me back to the movie, Borat.  The guys inquiring on the fist might have amputee friends back home. “I’ll find you a new arm in America!”

At least I didn’t actively encourage my son to eat whilst sitting on the john. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I didn’t encourage it either.

I had to get a laugh out of this- a woman parking her twins on kiddy potties in the middle of a McD’s or other fast food joint somewhere in Utah.  I am not the squeamish type, and the seats in most fast food joints are probably just as germy as the kiddy potties to begin with, but having your kids sit on the crapper pretty much in the nude, dropping a deuce through lunch is a bit much.   This is all the more motivation for me to do what I normally do on the rare occasion I dine of fast food.  I normally eat in the relative quiet and cleanliness of my own car.

The only time I go into a fast food joint is if I’m traveling and have to use the ladies’ as well as score some chow.  I am not a huge fan of public bathrooms, but if you gotta go, any crapper with a door will do.  Guys have the advantage here because most of them can keep a two-liter drink bottle for the purposes of whizzing on the go (make your own trucker bomb) but that’s just not practical for chicks.   I am not going to drop my drawers along the side of the Interstate to whiz for some jackwagon to take pics and plaster them all over creation.  I will concede that the public restroom is only one notch above the public fitting room (and I do NOT try on clothes in public fitting rooms ever) as far as creep factor, but sometimes necessity rules.  I don’t see myself going to adult diapers any time soon.

Far be it from me to judge another’s fetish but the “adult baby” fetish is just plain gross.  This dude looks like he should be on one of those sex offender/predator lists, no?

Black and Blue (Not Fun to Do) and My Crappy Attitude

Some days this is a lot easier said than done because I’m feeling a bit– ok- a lot- battered today.

I’ll say it now- I’m going to have a bit of a rant today.  Lord have mercy.  I need it.

No, I am not enduring any sort of domestic violence.  Jerry is pretty much confined to getting drunk and stupid.  He will say stupid things and do stupid things, but even Jerry has that little glimmer of self preservation instinct deep with in the reptilian part of his brain that restrains him from being stupid enough to get physically violent with me. I’m not inclined toward physical contact- especially fighting- and I generally avoid him when he’s drunk.  So we have a sort of détenté.  When he’s wasted, I’m in my own room, usually with the dogs.

Yesterday I went to the matinee showing of 2016 with Steve-o.  I’ve always appreciated Dinesh D’Souza’s commentary, and there were a number of facts brought up in the movie that I had not been aware of.  It was sort of preaching to the choir as far as I’m concerned, though.  The people who really need to see this movie are the people who are ill-informed or deceived enough to seriously entertain the thought of voting for Obama.   I already know better than to do that.  I knew better in 2008.  The only bad thing about going to the movie was my abysmal coordination.  Steve-o wanted to sit up toward the back, and as I was climbing the steps (which are uneven in a movie theatre) I bashed my foot on the step, and of course went down.

Thankfully I’d decided against the $7.00 Diet Coke.  I detest watered-down fountain drinks anyway, but I’d been really pissed if I’d nearly face planted (I came close to it) and then ended up wearing an over priced watered down fountain drink to add insult to my injury.  So now my left foot looks like someone bashed it with a hammer.  I’d be surprised if my big toe isn’t broken.  Even if it is, the ER can’t do anything for it other then to tell me to take Naproxen and put ice on it which I’ve already been doing.  Now I’m just waiting to see how far the bruise will spread and how many colors it will turn.  I’m rather easily amused.

Sort of an angry dark purple today, but it’s not too bad, if I refrain from bending it or bumping into anything.  Yeah.  I’m that coordinated. Had I been coordinated I’d not done this in the first place.

In spite of my rather unfortunate genetic grab bag, there are times I wish I’d been able to have more kids.  Then I remember I’m still paying for the POMC, and then I’m thankful that the Hand of Providence only allowed me one.

I don’t see how anyone can afford more than one rug rat- my condolences on anyone paying for one child especially today.  I don’t know how people do it with multiple mouths.  Of course I will be paying back all the $$$ I had to borrow to get the POMC through school, for the next ten years, so I’m just a skoche miffed about that.  If a person is considered an adult at age 18, then why the flying eff  is he considered my “dependent” for the purposes of the student loan machine- even though I can’t claim him as a tax deduction- because he has been living independently and working since he was 18?  Why do I get stuck with him on my insurance ’till he’s 26- (thanks Obama, for that shitty little provision) even though he works and has his own kid to support- and I end up with half of his student loans?????

I guess it’s my fault he’s white (minorities can get grants, but never whitey) and since the govt. has taken over student loans and financial aid, the kids get no help at all if their parents earn a (barely…) subsistence wage, even if the kid doesn’t live with his/her parents, which is majorly effed up.

Of course if I were on welfare and/or he belonged to ______ minority group, his education would have been free.  If he had any kind of athletic prowess (though I’m glad he actually got a brain instead) he’d be playing some sport and get a free ride which baffles my mind.  How many football players have an IQ higher than pond scum?  I have said it many, many times.  The football teams make schools like OSU and others a LOT of money.  Hire guys to play football, understand the football jocks are NOT scholars, and if you’re going to give scholarships, give them to people with the intellect to do something with the education they’re offered.  Of course that will never happen.

It is also a fact that if you’re female, AND white, you might as well understand there’s no scholarships and precious few grants for you to go to school no matter how poor you are.  It also doesn’t matter high your IQ and/or your GPA is.  A white female might as well just understand that if she wants an education, she’s going to have to pay for it (as well as for all the freeloaders) herself.

The lesson in this?  Apparently white people shouldn’t breed.  We just get stuck doing all the work- and then paying for everyone else who belongs to some “special group” anyway!

If you want an education, girls, better be prepared to learn on your own.

To put the turd on the icing of that little cake not only am I paying for my own kid (that, I don’t like, but I do understand) but I also get to pay for all the “special” ones who don’t have to pay too, probably even including the jocks who can’t spell their own names, but because they can run with a football, they get free rides.  These are guys whose academic pursuits include such edifying courses as, “Connecting With Your Inner Child Through Sports” and “The Joys of Basket Weaving.”  Maybe that’s why paying for my kid costs so damned much- because I’m not just paying for him but I’m also paying for the “freebie” kids.  Is this why health insurance is so outrageous too- because everyone who has insurance is paying for everyone who doesn’t for whatever reason?  I think it’s the same mentality going on, and it pisses me off.

Jerry might.  The dogs do.  I still use the toilet.

Absolute Authority, Colonel of the Urinal, and Which Circle of Hell is This?

I can’t say I envied her death by guillotine, but she had an awesome wardrobe for a time, whatever that’s worth.

(Just imagine all the lice in that wig…)

Today I am reminded of Lord Acton’s Dictum: “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”  This being said, I don’t want to be in charge of anything more lofty than getting Jerry’s AV equipment working for him.  It’s a TV and cable box, (God forbid he wants to figure out how to play a DVD at 6:30 AM) but for him, the TV remote might as well be Mission Control at NASA.

We have achieved ignition!  The TV is on!  Now Jerry can watch the news, and I can get on with getting my own shit done.

I know I shouldn’t pander to Jerry’s ever-present Helplessman mode.  I know he wants attention, otherwise he wouldn’t have unplugged all that crap a couple of weeks ago, forcing me to contort my body into positions it was never meant to assume in order to plug all of it back in and get it working again.  I couldn’t do Kama Sutra positions when I was younger and actually had sex every now and again.  Why the hell should I suffer like that knowing that sex is just a distant memory, and all I’ll get out of it now is dirty and pissed off?

Now that he knows I really hate the contortionist bullshit I have to go through to plug everything in again, it follows that when he whines about not being able to operate the TV, I will just turn the box on and leave the box on, and set the power button so the power button only works the TV.  If you turn off the box, then you have to turn the power button on, then turn the box on, then hit the power button again and then hit the TV button, which is just too many steps for Jerry.  If he would just leave the damned thing alone except for turning the TV on and off with the power button, it would work just fine, but he has to jack around with things he doesn’t understand.   Guess who gets to fix that mess?

Yes, he was raised by wolves, and his childhood sucked, and he didn’t get enough attention from Mommy, and all that psychological clap trap, but by the time you’re 55 one would think you would have learned to let it go and just deal.  Maybe I just took my own dysfunctional childhood the other direction and became insanely self-sufficient out of necessity and also out of recognition that if I want something done, it’s on me to get it done.

Depending on the charity or beneficence of others is sort of like wishing in one hand and taking a big juicy crap in the other.  We all know which one is going to fill up first.  Either I do it myself, or pay someone else if it’s something I can’t do myself. I don’t expect anyone to do my laundry, or hook up my TV, or fix my meals.

It’s well to remember that before the mid-20th century, most Americans were rednecks raised by wolves, bathing twice a year whether they needed it or not, and using the facility in the woods along with the bears.

I wish we had another working toilet.  There is a toilet in the basement, but it doesn’t work.  It’s some kind of weird electric (?) flush up type thing, but it’s permanently out of order unless Jerry can find someone to fix it or replace it or something.  Plumbing is a skilled trade- that I know absolutely nothing about.

All I know is that it cost $250 for the plumber to re-do the kitchen sink drain after Jerry tried to put a catfish head down the kitchen sink disposal.  The bad part about sharing a bathroom (and even though Jerry’s as filthy as a  horde of hogs, I would rather share a bathroom with a dude than a woman any day) is that it seems he has to take his place on the throne at the same time I need to brush my teeth and put on enough makeup to avoid traumatizing small children and dogs.

“Shit with a Hint of Mint” is not a flavor I think the product developers at Colgate had in mind, but more often than not, that’s the experience in my world.

This one would be flying off the shelves… not!

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so sensitive.  I should be more thankful that I don’t have much of a sense of smell.   If it stinks to me, it positively has to reek to the rest of the world.

I’m also thankful for the MP3 player, as the abysmal selections of country music being played by others in my vicinity seem to get worse every day.  I don’t care about saving horses and riding cowboys, nor do I give a hang about some hillbilly’s alcohol problem. I have realized that being exposed to country music- constantly and against my will, especially- only makes me loathe it more.  That’s OK.  I’m listening to the live version of Journey’s “Line of Fire,” which is drowning out the oat opera quite nicely.  I don’t want to be rude, but I would like to tell both the oat opera offenders where they can shove their damned radios and how high.  Those things have headphone jacks…please for the love of God use them!

I miss Reagan even more after the current Obfuscater in Chief sent out yet another misguided apology yesterday.

Back to our friend Lord Acton and his Dictum.  One person or one misguided group of people holding all the power is a very dangerous thing.  Humans are evil by nature, and without checks and balances- just imagine a five year old left alone in a car with a very expensive interior with nothing but his imagination and a Sharpie.  I’ve seen it.  It’s not pretty.  Neither is what has happened to the current government of this country.

I think if anything the system that we have to fear in this country isn’t so much Marxism or socialism or communism, but government by oligarchy.  The good ol’ boy system is nothing new, which is why the Framers of the Constitution tried to design safeguards into our system of government to help prevent one person- or even one ideological group- from getting too much power.  Obama on his own- he’s not that bright.  But the self-appointed “elites” who run things behind the scenes know exactly what they’re doing to this country and by proxy to the entire world.

Some pigs are more equal than others, as Orwell pointed out.  Al Gore might preach to the world to “mind their carbon footprint” and “wipe with reusable cloths,” or to “bury your car,” but this jackwagon is riding about in private jets and SUVs and sucking down more fossil fuels in a weekend than some entire countries do in a year.  You can bet there’s no Charmin shortage at Chez Gore either

Let them eat Big Macs!

Scary Bad Parenting, “Functional” is Not the Same as “Normal,” and Don’t Stifle My Creativity

Just blow that second-hand smoke all over your child’s developing lungs!

I have to admit, nothing contributes to the desire to chain smoke more than dealing with infants and toddlers, unless it’s dealing with automotive technicians.  At one time I had to contend with both, though in the end, chain smoking just feeds the nervous tension.  Thankfully I had taken a three-year hiatus from smoking, beginning a year and a half before the illustrious offspring arrived until about a year and a half after the illustrious offspring arrived. At least I didn’t knowingly contaminate the child whilst he was in the womb- mostly because I feared giving birth to a drooling slack-jawed cretin should I indulge in an aspartame-laden Diet Dr. Pepper, or a hit off a cigarette, or God forbid, a cup of coffee.  He’s potty trained, literate and gainfully employed, and he can pick his nose with his tongue!

I blame the tongue thing on the Sudafed.  One stinking Sudafed in week 3 of gestation, and the kid’s born tongue-tied.  Let that be a lesson.

Lávese las manos!  In NC, the obligatory employee bathroom instructions are only in English. In some parts of Ohio there’s 14 different languages on the sign – and there’s still millions of crusty people who don’t wash their hands in the bathroom.

I always wondered, since there’s dippy pictorial signs everywhere, either for the illiterate or the non-English speaking or both, why not a universal “wash your hands after using the crapper sign? ”  My art skills are pretty rudimentary, but here’s a thought:

Here’s my contribution for the betterment of humanity.  Enjoy, and wash your damned hands!

The cigarette jones is a strong compulsion, though. I know what possessed me to pick them back up.  I was stressed, sleep deprived, working a very shitty job with very shitty pay after I’d been promised all kinds of things that never materialized, and in the process of getting a divorce.  I was driving back from some backwater town running titles (which wasn’t what I was hired to do, but getting out is getting out) and happened to stop at a gas station for more coffee when I saw the Marlboro sign.  After three years of no smoking at all- from 1989-92, I bought a pack of Marlboro Menthol Light 100s and hot-boxed half the pack on the way back home.  I was a two-pack a day smoker for the next ten years, sometimes lighting one right off of the butt of the one I’d just smoked.  I apologize to Steve-o for letting him think that smoking was OK.  Strangely enough, he took them up three years after I’d quit (God willing for good) in 2002.  But he won’t smoke his cigs in that high faluting Audi, because he doesn’t want to “stink up the leather.”

No smoking in the Steve-o ride.  It might make the leather stink.

I’ll never make any sort of claim that I’m “normal.”  Functional, yes, but that’s not quite the same thing.  Rednecks piece together machinery and devices that are functional, but not exactly in the ways the designers had originally intended.

I don’t need no stinkin’ latches!  Though I think the bungees are holding the decklid and the rear fascia on too.

The Marion Walmart never disappoints as far as the panoply of redneck engineered motor vehicles in the parking lot.  Sadly this poor Pontiac is 1.) likely totalled and/or the one who hit it had no insurance or 2.) the one driving it when it was hit had no insurance, and making a police report would have cost him/her his/her license. Or, 3.) the driver of said Pontiac took the insurance settlement and spent it on crack.   If I were a betting person (which I’m not) I would wager on #3.  Perhaps it’s mean of me to photograph others’ misfortune, but it’s funny in a tragic sort of way.  I’ve driven my share of shitty cars, but that was in the days before digital photography made the disasters so easy to share.

What I don’t get about this 70’s Midol ad is the guys deserve some of the aggravation right back at them.  Especially Jerry.

Another thing I discovered about menopause is that you don’t need Aunt Flo as an excuse to channel your inner bitch.  I can be bitchy all month long AND wear white pants while I’m bitchy, even when I’m sitting in the freezer.  The hot flash thing isn’t nearly as bad as it was a year or two ago, but it’s still bad when I’m watching polar bears on TV and at times I wish I was hanging out on the icebergs with them.   I don’t think I’ve worn a sweater for years, or more PJs than light PJ pants and a t-shirt.  I would probably be smothering to death if I had long hair.  Now I know why old women have short hair.  It’s easier to color, yes, but it’s also a hell of a lot cooler.

I have every right to keep on bitching!

The Frequent Whizzer’s Club, Deaf is Not Dumb, and What Fools Believe

I survived.  500 miles, give or take a mile or two, is not a terribly short trip. I managed to get back in just about 9 hours, which is not bad time for someone who gets a bit wigged out by mountain driving, and is doing good to drive 200 miles at a time without having to stop and whiz.   Central Ohio is flat.  I have no problem with driving in the city, but I don’t have to deal with either curves or grades too much here.  There’s something unnerving about mountain driving when you’re not used to it.    I’ve seen a bit of the carnage that comes off the rural Interstates, and it’s not pretty.

The route I prefer is about 30 miles longer than going via the WV Turnpike, but I don’t go on the Turnpike for a number of reasons.  First of all, the Turnpike is a toll road.  Second of all, the speed limit is 75 and should be 45.  The last time I drove the Turnpike the speed limit was 55, and that’s way the hell too fast for those curves and grades.  Perhaps if I had a suitable rally car (i.e. VW GTI…) I would find the curves and grades exciting, but all I can envision in the Yaris is being blown off a hillside by either a big truck or a nice gust of wind.  42 MPG has its trade-offs.  Weight is one of them.  The Yaris is a light car with a moderate suspension, which is optimal for most road trips, but not for extreme mountain driving. Wind is its nemesis.  I have no logical reason to drive the Turnpike, and no pressing reason to find myself stranded in the middle of WV.  Let’s just say hotel accommodations down in the hollers can be a bit primitive, and the nearest trauma center is clear the hell back in Columbus.

I’ve been around body shops way too much.  I  often visualize the worst.

Granted, this dismembered Audi met its fate on the Autobahn, where there are very few speed restrictions.  I don’t see any blood and guts though, which meant that German engineering must count for something.  The driver likely survived.

Taking I-71 to I-75 to I-40 is the least offensive, though not technically the fastest route.  Most of that route takes one through the rolling hills of Kentucky- lots of horses and tobacco fields and, as Jerry was quick to point out, truck stops with $30 a carton cigarettes. If I had to take the Turnpike, it would be a few miles shorter, but any time gained would have been spent scraping the crap out of my pants.  The worst part of the trip is that stretch of I-40 between the Tennessee border and where my sister lives, in Old Fort.  When you see runaway truck ramps, going downhill is a tad bit disturbing- especially when Dad’s driving and he’s pushing 90, changing lanes, and laughing like a teenage kid.

This scares the living hell out of me.

Speaking of frequent whizzing, I don’t think Dad can make it 100 miles without having to whiz. I thought I was bad about constantly having to hit the head, and Mom’s not much better, but geez! I swear we stopped about 8 times on the way down, including munching as well as whizzing, which is why it took us 11 hours to get down there, in spite of Dad mistaking the Yaris for a rally car and doing about 85 all through that nice little stretch of I-40 from the Tennessee border all through NC.  The Yaris is not a rally car.  It will do 85 in the mountains, but suffice to say it’s ill advised.  I’m glad I was sitting in the back seat, trying to distract myself with the DS.

Suprisingly, Sheena is not weird about touch- as long as she can see you.

I’m still trying to get it through my own thick skull that Sheena can’t hear at all.  Many dogs with her coat pattern are deaf.  All puppies are born deaf, but if her deafness is inherited, she simply never acquired hearing at the age of two weeks like normal dogs do.  She compensates amazingly well, but knowing she’s deaf makes her shortcomings easy to understand.  She survives on what she can see and smell and even feel (she is very sensitive to touch and vibrations.)   Motion is a huge trigger for her.  Her peripheral vision is amazing- but stand directly behind her and she’s oblivious.  If she can’t see you, and you don’t stomp on the floor behind her, she has no idea you’re there.  To me that would be a scary way to go through life, but she has never known anything different.  You deal with life using what you’ve been given.  Sheena has survived and adapted remarkably well. Somehow she’s ended up incredibly outgoing and affectionate.

OK, a little original artwork of mine, in honor of Miz Izz.  Black cats are awesome.

I’m not much of an artist.  Sometimes I like to scribble about, and this actually looked kind of cool.  Of course, black cats are always cool.  If I were required to have a tattoo, which I’m not, and I don’t see it happening, I wouldn’t mind a cool design like this.

The 1950’s were such an innocent time.  Hell, all the TV on back then probably was educational.

Today Motorola’s claim to fame is cell phones, but back in the days of black and white TV, it was a popular brand.  This ad (and all those lovely “More Doctors Smoke Camels” ads) only goes to show that advertising is exactly that: an attempt to convince you to buy crap, even if it might kill you.

1950’s TV- no TruTV, no Investigation Discovery or Science Channel or History Channel.  That would have to have sucked, but not knowing any better, kids went outside to play.  Even in the 1970’s the TV landscape- at least for kids- was pretty bleak.  Mom didn’t mind us watching Mr. Rogers or Sesame Street.  Saturday morning cartoons such as the Flintstones, Scooby Doo, Tom & Jerry, Bugs Bunny, Fat Albert and The Hairbear Bunch were OK too, but usually she turned the TV off when Soul Train came on.  Soul Train was not appropriate, because 1. the girls didn’t wear enough clothes, and 2. they “dance dirty.”

Mom had no idea how much worse the world of “dance” was going to get.

Mom grew up in Catholic school, so I can understand her distress at this girl going braless, and shaking her booty, but this was long, long before Marion County got a Wal Mart.  If you want a true clothing FAIL, that’s the place to go.

And it doesn’t mean “Fantastic.”

Have you no self respect?