assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like (Tacky) Christmas, and a License for Bad Behavior

wpid-mntsdcardDCIMCamera2013-11-29-12.54.46.jpg.jpg

I knew my pink skeleton from Halloween could become a year-round decoration!

I adore tacky Christmas decorations.  I like the nice ones too, but I can identify with “decorate with what you can find.”  A discarded Bud Light bikini bimbo cardboard display from last summer’s beer promotion at the drive thru can be made festive, if that’s all you have.   Some rednecks up in the west side of Marion did that one year and I’m still kicking myself in the ass for not having a camera handy to capture that moment.

budlight

Just hang some tinsel and beer cans off of her (like pasties) and you’re all set!

Dad absolutely loathed the holidays when we were growing up, and because we were poor, he waited until the last minute to begrudgingly allow us to put up anything.  One year I stuffed a left over live Christmas tree from one of those tree lot sales after it had ended (on December 23rd, because there were no decorations in the house) in my ’72 Super Beetle and brought it home and set it up.  Dad didn’t like it, but I think he let me go ahead and do it just because it was so much fun for him to watch me unload this nice, crooked, sappy, spiky tree out of the passenger’s seat of said Super Beetle in the middle of an ice storm.  He has a sick sense of humor too.  The tree ended up a bit less than five feet tall and resembled a Charlie Brown tree- but it was free.

Now I have an artificial tree, and it’s pink.  Jerry is afraid that a real Christmas tree is a fire hazard (coming from Mr. Let’s-Drink-a-Fifth-of-Wild-Turkey-Then-Start-a-Fire-in-the-Fireplace-with-Gasoline) so I decided to humor him.

small pink tree

Tastefully tacky?

Jerry can be quite the asshole with absolutely no provocation or logical explanation at all, but any kind of holiday is a sort of license for bad behavior for him.  If he can show his ass, get me upset, or otherwise make a Drama Queen Scene, that’s when he will do it.  Every holiday.  Especially Christmas.  I’m better off to go to 12 Noon Christmas Eve service at church, and then get out of town for the next 36-48 hours.  Guaranteed.

holiday-badattitude

He wonders why on every holiday I beat feet and go somewhere else to wait it out.  Holidays are the few times a year where going to my oldest sister’s actually is a more attractive option than staying home.  This is even taking into consideration her obnoxious in-laws (and I thought mine were raised by wolves) and the fact that she beat the hell out of me every day for the first thirteen years of my life.

Yesterday (Thanksgiving) was no exception to his holiday angst.  I figured if I was out of the house by 8 AM I would be OK.   He had gotten really shitfaced Wednesday night so I figured he would still be sleeping good when I took off. Unfortunately he had set his alarm (?) for 6:30 (he doesn’t get up that early when he has to work) so I got the full “Where’s my breakfast?” and “What did you do with my pills/smokes/underwear/any other item that I normally never touch?” rant.  I was in no mood for his little tirade, and I basically told him he could shove his smokes up his ass and eat shit for all I care.

brat tantrum

56, going on 2.

I’m still waiting to see if he has the locks changed today and/or if he throws my shit out on the lawn.  That wouldn’t surprise me, because Jerry is the poster child for conditional “love” if that’s what you call it.  I stopped believing in the concept of romantic “love” many, many years ago.  As long as I run and fetch and kiss his ass, he claims to “love” me.  But the minute I assert any type of resistance to his constant shit-slinging, he goes on and on about how I don’t do anything for him, ya-da, ya-da, just like a brat child who doesn’t get his way.  I put up with his shit mostly because I’m old, and for the sake of the dogs.

I don’t understand why this brat child in a geezer’s body, who would have absolutely no clue how to do more to maintain himself than the most basic of personal hygiene, wants to threaten me.  That’s not very smart on his part.  Before you tell me to get out, be careful what you wish for.  You might just get it- and when I am done, I am done.  Just ask my ex.  Only this time I won’t show nearly as much mercy, and I will get a better attorney.  You don’t want me to channel my inner ruthless bitch.  Trust me on that.

forgiveness

I guess I just have to forgive stupid, because I can’t fix it.

Sometimes I wish I could just go from Halloween and skip to about May 1.  I am not a terribly big fan of the holidays, mostly because of Jerry’s bad behavior.  I know I need to sincerely examine why I put up with it because my tolerance of it defies logic.  On one level I’m smarter than that, but on another level, I am letting my emotions govern my behavior. “Following my heart” and showing mercy have always gotten me into trouble.

I’ll see how he behaves tonight.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, theology

Suicide: I Sort of Understand- But- The Dirt Nap Awaits Us All

burgess-meredith

“And I usually drink my dinner!”

I really enjoyed Burgess Meredith’s performances in the “Grumpy Old Men” movies.  I especially enjoyed the death reference from the movie “Grumpier Old Men”:

Grandpa:   What the… what the hell is this?
John:   That’s lite beer.
Grandpa:   Gee, I weigh ninety goddamn pounds, and you bring me this sloppin’ foam?
John:   Ariel’s got me on a diet because the doc said my cholesterol’s a little too high.
Grandpa:   Well let me tell you something now, Johnny. Last Thursday, I turned 95 years old. And I never exercised a day in my life. Every morning, I wake up, and I smoke a cigarette. And then I eat five strips of bacon. And for lunch, I eat a bacon sandwich. And for a midday snack?
John:   Bacon.
Grandpa:   Bacon! A whole damn plate! And I usually drink my dinner. Now according to all of them flat-belly experts, I should’ve took a dirt nap like thirty years ago. But each year comes and goes, and I’m still here. Ha! And they keep dyin’. You know? Sometimes I wonder if God forgot about me. Just goes to show you, huh?

Suicide isn’t a joke, even though I sort of understand the mentality behind wanting to just plain blot out.  There have been times in my life when I’ve thought about it, and then the old Catholic teaching that suicide is a mortal sin sticks in my head.  In old school Catholic thought, killing yourself is more or less similar to drawing the “go to jail” card in Monopoly, but with a twist:

monopoly-go-to-HELL2-card

I don’t know why, but this was always my visual for “Mortal Sin.”

The older I get, the more I realize that what seems like the end of the world really isn’t the end of the world.  It might hurt like hell.  It might be physical pain, or even chronic pain that never really goes away.  It might be that nameless void in which there are no words or even tears, but only a sharp and consuming bolt of terror and sadness and longing that knocks your breath away. Even that is not the end of the world.

The older I get, the more tenaciously I cling to life- if only because experience has taught me that there is life (and good life to be had) even beyond the unspeakable, nameless void of grief, beyond the burning pain of rejection, beyond the uncertainty of worldly trappings, and even in the endurance of chronic physical pain.

limbour-hell

Hell?  Or is it just Detroit?

I know it’s hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel, especially when you’re a fifteen year old kid and all you’ve ever known is deprivation and loss and a sad sense of being unworthy of sucking up valuable oxygen.  I’ve been there.

I don’t know exactly what kind of despair was behind the recent teen suicides here in central Ohio.  I know I wouldn’t want to be a high school kid today, but things sucked back in my world too.  We faced an uncertain future.  There were people like me with thick glasses and bad clothes and geeky habits who were just about as popular as stepping in dog shit on a hot day, but we survived.  Some of us went on to thrive, although in my case I wouldn’t claim any kind of stellar, charmed life- but it’s life.  I’ll take what I can get and give what I can give and at the end of the day, that’s all.

control

I don’t have the answers.  I’m not God, which is a good thing, because if I controlled the world it would be pretty much unrecognizable.  There would be a lot of buff dudes in Spandex, and no such thing as rap music.  That much I could guarantee, but then again I am not the one in control.

There is a certain amount of peace in accepting that there are some questions that will never be answered and some concepts that I was never designed to understand.  I don’t have much comfort or solace for those who survive after a loved one commits suicide except to say that there is life beyond the breathless void, and that some day there will be good life beyond that void.  I will also say that God is big enough to take whatever anger and frustration and pain that you are willing to surrender to Him.

mortality-rates

Our time is short.  That doesn’t necessarily disturb me too much.  I’ve been close to death, and I’m not afraid to die.  I don’t like the prospect of suffering and pain and I understand that there are times when death would be a relief and a comfort.  As far as I can tell, as of right now, I’m not there yet.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

 

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assorted rants, creative writing, dogs, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

An Argument for Psycho Control- and Workouts for Kids

gun control

One (very rare, may I add) positive to come out of the Obama administration was that his ineptitude and usurpation of Americans’ rights made me very much more aware of my both my first and second amendment rights.  I never dreamed five years ago that I would ever want to own a gun, let alone apply for concealed carry.

Times have changed.

gun-control-compensating-poster

I don’t feel safe going anywhere after dark.  That’s not necessarily Obama’s fault, because the neighborhood where I work has been going downhill for years, so I will give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. I don’t feel safe going out after dark because there are crazy people out there. If the crazy people have guns, then why do I want to be unarmed?  Doesn’t it make more sense not only for me to be armed, but also for me to know how to use a firearm correctly?

This morning there was a shootout just down the road– in the WalMart I’m afraid to set foot in, no less.  The shooter shot a little kid, a woman while she was sitting in the dentist’s chair, (?) and a cop.  Shooting the cop got him killed- and saved the taxpayers some money- at any rate.  I don’t like to see people get killed, but shooting a cop is just plain asking for it.

I don’t blame the firearm, or even the fact that this guy had access to one.  I blame him and him alone.  Triggers don’t pull themselves.

Gun control is holding on with both hands.  Psycho control is what we need in this world, and unfortunately in the trees of civilization, there are more than a few fruits and nuts.

fat-kids1

Really?  Where’s your mother?  In the rhino cage?  That explains it!

When I was growing up (in a rural, poor area…) there were no fat kids, except one.  That was Scottie-Scottie Two By Four.  You know the rest of the rhyme- “couldn’t get through the bathroom door/so he did it on the floor/licked it up and did some more/Fatty-Fatty two-by-four”  In middle school he was well over 200#.  This poor kid was harassed so relentlessly that the summer between seventh and eighth grade he went to football camp, as well as he went on a crash diet and lost well near 7o#.  By the beginning of eighth grade he was still big, but it wasn’t fat any more.  The coaches had ran it all off of him.  His parents were lard asses, which probably explains how he got so large- Daddy was about 400# and Mommy wasn’t far behind.  Yes, the kids made some serious jokes about Scottie’s Mom and Dad having to do the wild thing on a steel reinforced mattress.   There was also much speculation that they had to go out in the garage to do it because the floors in their house couldn’t take it.  I don’t know if that was true or not.  Some things are just not worth finding out.

 fat_people_08

The apple usually doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But most of us kids were thin according to today’s standards.  Even though I was never allowed to play organized sports after I had rheumatic fever, (and nobody wanted me to before, because I sucked,) I still got lots of exercise.  Self preservation is a good workout motivator.

My Mom liked to lock us outside and turn up the TV when she’d had enough, or just when she was spaz, which was a good deal of the time.  Although I was never a fast runner, I was good at hiding. I had to work to avoid getting my ass kicked.

ignore your kids

One of my favorite hiding places was with the Rottweiler down the street.  I wasn’t afraid of him, even though he wasn’t always terribly clean, and his fleas had no problem biting me too.  The other kids were terrified of him.  Ass kicking or flea bites?  Most of the time I took my chances with the unauthorized insect life.  Mom really didn’t like it when I came home eaten to death with flea bites, and smelling like dog shit, but at least it wasn’t blood and broken bones. I did manage to get through childhood without breaking anything.  I did get blood poisoning from scrapes, cuts, splinters and so forth, a few times though.

old bike

You put it together with whatever pieces you could scrounge.

Your bike was your transportation.  Mom didn’t get a driver’s license until I was 12 years old, and even though the state of Ohio thinks she’s cool to drive, I’ll beg to differ.  Riding a bike was safer on many levels than riding with Mom, even though there is a good deal of comic relief to be gleaned from her chronic road rage.

It’s sad but true- my son learned how to fly the one finger salute (age 5) by watching my mother road rage.

one finger

Thanks, Mom!

Now people don’t let kids ride their bikes unless they have so much protective gear on that they look like the freaking Transformers.  And then they can only ride their bikes on the designated bike path, never on makeshift BMX trails in the woods or back along where the railroad tracks used to be.

bike gear

Welcome to the Thunderdome!  Oh, I was just riding my bike down to the carry out?  Really?

I think part of the reason why kids of my generation got plenty of exercise is that we were pretty much left outside to fend for ourselves most of the time.  Most of our families were poor.  Most of our families had two or more kids, so if one went missing, it’s one less mouth to feed.  Oh, well.   Now people treat their kids in much the same way as some of the poor dogs I see in the vet’s office.   They mollycoddle, indulge and literally “love” them to death.

fat_dog_006

It is cruel to let a dog get this fat.

Science is on my side here: obesity kills dogs.  It’s a proven fact, and since a dog lives about 15 years give or take, it’s easy to see what happens when dogs are allowed to be hugely fat.  But there are people out there who just can’t see the correlation, that overfeeding and under-exercising their dogs takes years off their dogs’ lives.  Every time I take one of my girls to the vet’s office, I see obese dogs suffering from preventable health problems.  The vet sees it too and it has to really bother her.

Perhaps people are viewing their kids not as liabilities or money pits, but as pampered pets.  I don’t know which mindset is worse- leaving kids to their own devices and out to the wolves, or mollycoddling and indulging them.

Kids have to get out and get dirty.  Kids have to have limits.  One Klondike bar once a week is fine.  Three after dinner is way too much.

Maybe if we could worry less about the psychos in our midst, we could let kids go out and play and be kids and not feel as if we have to indulge their every whim.

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel

A Few of My Favorite Things, and Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

favorite-things

 

Most of my favorite things, I’ve found, are in the absence of nasty things.

I like quiet as opposed to blather and noise.

I like being left alone. (usually)

I like it when my head is free of being clogged with snot. (this doesn’t happen often)

I like it when I am not drowning in the snot that constantly drains down the back of my throat. (also doesn’t happen often)

I must be a really simple person when a good day consists of being relatively quiet and snot-free.

Snot_Bubble_Boy

Why is there no cure for snot?

Today’s sort of good news is that I don’t have a fever (opposed to the last two days) but I still feel shitty and, as usual for me, am plagued by gallons of draining snot.  At least my throat is no longer on fire, which is a plus.  I could, however, do without the distinct sensation that someone is driving a rusty spike through my right eye-hole.  Even so, I was well enough to drag my sorry carcass back to work, even though another day of swilling hot tea and attempting to sleep probably would have been better for me.

Bailey’s and coffee would be even better, except I know how that would wreak havoc on my sugar.

baileys-and-hot-coffee

I wish I could….have a few of these!

I could also do without the pompous ass-pilots of the world, but if they were to suddenly disappear from the face of the earth, about half the population of the planet would be missing.

What would happen to all the Corvettes?

2014-corvette-stingray

Corvette owners have a reputation for being, uh, not-so-nice.  I’m sure there are exceptions to the rule.

I’ve never been a huge Corvette fan (I’d rather have a ’69 Karmann Ghia, or a ’69 FJ40 if I could afford collectible cars) but one has to admit, the new one is interesting to look at.  I wouldn’t want the car payment or the insurance premium, but I’m not evil enough to have the that kind of scratch, either.

Perhaps the week would be more interesting if we had “motivational days” that looked like this:

TheWeekNeedsBetterDays-44841

Overall, I’m thankful to be alive and vertical.  Sometimes I don’t sound like it, but overall, I am.  Even considering dealing with ass-pilots and endless snots and everything else annoying.

I've seen better days

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

A Road Trip for Miz Izz, The Gene Pool Needs Chlorine, and Entropy Can Be Entertaining

Isabelnotamused

15 is ancient, if you’re a cat.

I had to take poor Miz Izz to the vet on Saturday.  I did so with a bit of trepidation, because when a cat’s 15, anything can be the prelude to the dirt nap.  She has a funky condition on the pads of her front paws called plasma cell pododermatitis or what is commonly called “pillow foot.”  The paw pads swell up and sometimes even crack and bleed (this was the reason I took her to the vet.) Weirdly enough, it’s not a particularly dangerous condition, but given Miz Izz’s age, it can’t be surgically corrected.  The risk of surgery on a 5#, elderly cat is not worth the potential benefit, because it’s neither painful nor life threatening according to the vet.  It can be managed with occasional steroid/antibiotic injections and scuttlebutt has it that essential oils and Vitamin E can be helpful as well.  So she’s back on the fish oil and Vitamin E supplement which I probably should not have stopped giving her.  It does make her coat nice and shiny, and she doesn’t object to the taste, so if anything I don’t see where it would do any harm.

Most cats go ballistic in the car and have meltdowns in the vet’s office.  Not Miz Izz.  She will sit on the exam table quietly and let the vet do her thing.  Isabel was cooperative even when she was very young.  I can just zip her up in my hoodie and carry her around with no problem.  Jezebel also lets me just put her in my hoodie, and is just as laid back about the vet and riding in the car as Isabel is.  Fanny freaks out.  She is well near impossible to transport and has to be in a carrier.  I’ve not had to attempt transport with F.B.   F.B. is usually quite sanguine, but she does put up a wicked struggle over getting her flea treatment.

 Redneck-chick

Some people are very easily entertained.

The photo above is further evidence of the devolution of mankind.  Fifty years ago these people’s grandparents would have been engaging in the fine pastime of ballroom dancing:

ballroom-2038971

All I can think of is how bad those skirts have got to ITCH!

Every time I go to WalMart, I am reminded of how badly the gene pool needs chlorine.  Either that, or it might help to provide more full-length mirrors in public places so people can see how bloody ridiculous they look.  When your ass is the size of a Toyota Corolla, Spandex pants and a halter top are not sensible wardrobe choices.

It also doesn’t help to try to put camo pants over rhinoceros size butt cheeks.  The camo effect is lost when you’re working with that much surface area.

I ended up having to go home this afternoon with a nasty sore throat.  Yes, I went and had a strep test because it came on rather suddenly (the preliminary test was negative) so I am in bed swilling tea and wishing Jerry would shut up about not being able to find anything in the kitchen.  I’m not fetching anything for him.  I’m trying to get this shit to go away because I really don’t want to call off work tomorrow.  I have the vacation time, and the thought of a whole day of drinking tea and watching History Channel could be interesting, but I really hate taking days off (especially unplanned) because I end up having to fix nine kinds of disasters when I get back.

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I have, but dammit, I’m sick!

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary

Mollycoddled, They’re YOUR Kids, and a Culinary Milestone

SAMSUNG

I blew coffee out my nose this morning while perusing my coupon circulars!

This reminded me of Benny Hill’s “Therapist” skit.  Yes, it is worth it to click on the link to the You Tube video.  Especially if you appreciate Benny Hill’s sort of humor as much as I do.

Art may be anal (I know plenty of artistic types who are) but when the word “anal” is found anywhere near the words “breakfast sandwich,” that’s where my culinary curiosity ends.

I get that the creator of this hilariously named morning comestible was meaning to use the word “artisan” without realizing how funny the addition of “al” would make the word appear.  I have to wonder why the grocery store’s advertising editor didn’t spy that and substitute a phrase free of such enjoyable double entendre, such as,  “Artisan Inspired Breakfast Sandwich” or, “An Artisan’s Breakfast Sandwich.”

Then again most “artisans” are probably smoking a bowl, then scarfing down an organic granola bar and a 20 ounce diet Mountain Dew for breakfast.  The artificial food coloring, various other impurities, and caffeine in the diet Mountain Dew are cancelled out by the organic wholesomeness of the granola bar.  Or so some people like to think.  Just like the two liter of diet Dr. Pepper cancels out the calories in the large stuffed crust supreme pizza you had for dinner.  Right.

pizza2

Large stuffed crust supreme pizza.  That sounds good, but I will behave and enjoy my planned evening repast of grilled tilapia, steamed broccoli and penne pasta- with sugarless iced tea.

spoiled-brats-0-FunnyPicsPage

I would like to know why most parents assume that the state (i.e. government in any form) is responsible for the education of their offspring.  The last time I checked, the bare minimum goals of parenting should consist of being sure that one’s offspring becomes potty-trained, literate and gainfully employed, preferably on or before the age of 21.

Perhaps my sentiments verge on violating child labor laws, but it’s no wonder Jimmy is uneducated, unemployed and staying up at all hours playing “World of Warcraft” and “Call of Duty” while still camping out in Mommy’s basement – at age 35.  Apparently it’s verboten these days to give one’s freeloading spawn a rousing size 7 enema when he or she richly deserves it.  (For those who are wondering what a size 7 enema is, it’s a polite way of referring to me putting my size 7 boot up someone’s ass.)

kids should work

Kids should have to work.  My Dad made me, and I turned out – ah, never mind.

I had many, many grievous failings as a mother.   I’m not claiming to be the perfect parent, or even a moderately good one.  If I would have been, I would have home-schooled and gotten access to whatever resources I could to make my son some sort of prodigy in something.  The only problem with that is I had to (and still have to) work.  I didn’t have the luxury of the time and resources to home-school, which is entirely a failure ON ME.

But in spite of him having to endure public school, (I really, really regret that, except for the last 2 years where he actually learned something- in vocational school) somehow my kid ended up being capable of critical thought, fiercely independent,  able to support himself and his daughter, and to a degree, his tastes for high faluting German cars.  He even ended up with a strong work ethic.  Imagine that.  Whether that was luck of the draw, or my insistence that he become as independent as possible as early as possible, I’m not sure.  It could also be that he inherited my penchant for skepticism, (and a healthy dose of the cynical eye) because he questioned “the system” from day one.

Question-authority-34510685076

Oh, yes it is.  Daily.  Right now, constantly.

Kids who are taught critical thinking skills (hint: NOT taught intentionally in public schools, at least not any more) are going to be harder to deal with.  They will be disruptive.  They will do weird things.  They will piss you off.  They will be impudent, disrespectful and just plain a thorn in the side.  I wanted to disown my son between the ages of 13 and 16 for all his creative behavioral exploits, believe that.  They will need swift and sometimes harsh correction.  BUT- in the long run- children taught to think critically will mature into confident and capable adults, rather than overgrown, obese children, who become both endless money pits for their parental units to support, and mushy, whiny depositories for whatever drivel they’re spoon fed.

It’s a parent’s responsibility to see that their children not only get an education, but also that they get the critical thinking skills necessary to navigate the world for themselves.  The government is NOT responsible for the education of your children, (and they are doing a predictably abysmal job of it,) and as each day passes I trust the public educational system even less than I did when my son was involved in it.  Public education is no longer about equipping young people for life and imparting meaningful information and vital skills.  Now it’s all about making sure the kiddies know that Heather’s two mommies are just lovely, that gay is OK, and that religious freedom is something everyone has a right to, except of course, Christians.

teacher needs

But a teacher- even a good one who isn’t a union thrall- can’t do squat if Mom and Dad don’t care.

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assorted rants, historical interest, misanthropy

A Blast From the Past, the White Death Arriveth, and Sick Humor

hair bear bunch lunch

It’s hard to believe they let us have metal lunch boxes in elementary school.

It was a far more innocent time, even though I can attest to the fact that a metal lunch box can and will draw blood if someone knocks you in the head with the corner of one of these things.  I had a Hair Bear Bunch lunch box for awhile. Those lunch boxes always came with a plastic Thermos that matched the box, too.  I think I had Holly Hobbie and Snoopy at one point, though I got new lunch boxes more often than other kids had to.  Lunch boxes didn’t survive more than a year or so for most kids, but mine never survived more than a few weeks.  I had a hard time keeping people from stealing and/or mutilating mine beyond recognition.

lunch boxes

Yes, the Dukes of Hazzard lunch box had a rebel flag on the Thermos.  Just think how that flag would fly in a kid’s lunch today!

I probably had a Dukes of Hazzard lunch box at one time.  Grandma usually had to find me new lunch boxes, and I ended up with whatever was left or on sale when mine got too badly distressed to use.  The worst one I ever ended up with was one with NFL Football on it.   It wasn’t easy to find a new lunch box in April, for example, so I had to take what Grandma could get.  Grandma bought me quite a few lunch boxes to keep me from getting in trouble at home.

In fourth and fifth grades the kids were allowed to go home for lunch (another thing that is unheard of today) if you lived close, and you got back to school in time to make the lunch recess bell.  That was better than eating with the heathens in the school cafeteria for a number of reasons, but I generally went home most days because I could just fix some soup and a sandwich or just forage about at home and eat in peace.  I didn’t mind forgoing lunch recess in order to have some peace and quiet.

High school was another culinary adventure.   During my freshman year I didn’t dare eat anything prepared at school, because the roaches had taken over the cafeteria. There was always a high risk of getting bug parts (or whole bugs) in your food.  The ovens and warmers were ancient as well, so you could get fries that were burnt on the outside and frozen on the inside, depending on where they were sitting on the racks.  Prepackaged food was generally safe as long as you could verify that the cellophane had not been violated, but during my freshman year most of my lunch money went toward my coverless it-would-be-porn-if-it-were-illustrated literature collection.

twinkies

In my high school, the Twinkies were probably the safest item on the menu.

Today I don’t think they allow Twinkies (even though they have been resurrected) in school cafeterias, but that might depend on which school, and whether or not they have been brainwashed by the Michelle Obama campaign to spare the world from childhood obesity.  I wonder why there were fewer lard asses back in the day when you could load up on all the candy and soda your heart desired at lunch.  Maybe it was because you could only afford one pack of Twinkies versus a whole box.

One side of the argument for food freedom is if you make Twinkies and Ho-Hos and such into forbidden fruit, kids are just going to want more of them. From the middle-aged Mom view I agree that kids should eat a healthy lunch, but from my perspective in the early 1980s, I believed the four food groups were caffeine, nicotine, sugar and grease.  You can lead a child to broccoli, and you can warn against the dangers of processed foods, trans fats, refined sugar and corn syrup,  but sooner or later they have to decide for themselves that healthy eating is better.   Sometimes this realization takes a few years of a diet of Marlboros, coffee, Mickey D’s, Cheetos, and crème horns to get the point across.

This is another reason why: If I can’t be a good example, I might as well serve as a warning.

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The White Death Arriveth-

And way too soon, may I add.  It won’t stay Arctic cold forever, but it was a bit annoying waking up to having the car encased in 1/2″ of ice.  Normally I don’t like to let the car sit and idle and waste gasoline, but the only way you’re getting that ice off the car is to pry your way in the driver’s door, start it up, turn the heat/defrost on full blast, and let it melt from the inside.  It would have taken me all morning to try to chip off all that ice.

I think it’s funny to see how many jackwagons forgot how to drive in snow and ice since March.  In the city there was next to nothing on the roads because they had been brined and cleared off all night- for about two inches of snow.  Then again, if it gets really bad, I have ABS and traction control and I just got new tires, so I am probably better prepared than many.

traction-control button

No, I am leaving it on, thanks!

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