creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

Dancing in My Mind, and Memory is Bittersweet

snow white yeah right

No, I don’t believe in that “Happy Ever After” shit.

I’m one of those people who does a lot of living behind my own eyes.  I can be remarkably scatterbrained when it comes to things such as “where’s my stuff?” or “what’s that dude’s name?, ” but when I happen upon an experience or an event that I want to remember, those memories remain vivid and in living, breathing color.  Believe that.

For me the garden of memory is almost more alive than the real thing, if that’s possible. Sometimes that’s not so good, especially if I am stuck on a scene of disappointment or rejection, or mourning, but some trips to the garden of memory are positively magical.

Over the past few years I’ve allowed myself to fall into the pattern of being constrained by what I see as the limitations of my circumstances.  Admittedly being married to a chronic boozer who has ED and a laundry list of other physical and psychological issues is a huge downer, and not exactly good for one’s self-esteem.

drunk

Jerry enjoys his beer drinking- and isn’t compelled to do anything about it.

I’m not referring to self-esteem in the vapid sense of “feeling good about yourself,” as in the phenomenon where some people treat their kids as though they deserve a prize for remaining vertical and continuing to suck up valuable oxygen.  I’m talking about self image in a realistic way: I may be scatterbrained and wired differently than most people, but I manage to function somewhat effectively.  I might be plain and proportioned like a mutant troll, but fuglier people than I still manage to have relationships, and fuglier people than I still manage to get laid from time to time.  So I may not be “normal,” but I’m not that screwed up, I hope.

TorridTeaser

Old, yes, but I’m really, really, really low mileage.

It’s as if his dysfunction colors my outlook, and to a degree it does.  I can’t say that going years without participating in the horizontal mambo is a good thing.  I didn’t ask for the celibate life, and I truly don’t care for it.  Being treated as a glorified maid and gopher doesn’t do much for feeling feminine or desirable or any of that business that I would like to say doesn’t matter, but deep down on some level it does.

A big part of me feels like a failure because in the back of my mind I guilt trip- what if I’d done more?  What if I’d been more perceptive, more loving, or maybe less frumpy and boring?  I guilt trip because maybe I shouldn’t feel the way I do (and I don’t acknowledge my feelings all too often, and when I do, I try not to give them much credence, which is probably a good thing) and that I should just suck it up and be glad Jerry can still dress and feed himself-for now.

turbovibe

I don’t think I could handle the guilt trip if I just picked up and left, and that’s messed up too.  I said I would stay with him, though it’s been a very long almost 20 years.  I feel like the life has been sucked out of me- to the point that a mere acknowledgment from a ghost from the past left me almost euphoric yesterday.   Someone still gives half a shit!  A half of a drink of water in an endless desert! It’s a sad state of affairs when I get that little affirmation.

But there is life beyond my limitations.  I did have a life in front of my eyes, at one time.  And I did enjoy myself for a moment in the garden of a particularly sweet memory yesterday and it did lift my spirits more than it probably should have.

There was a time- and maybe this is just my own wishful thinking- that I was desired and wanted and pursued.  As much as I don’t want to admit to having a need to be wanted by men or even by a man (this reminds me way too much of the fairy tale bullshit shoved down little girls’ throats as they’re growing up) even I want to be more than just the one who gets to clean up the cat puke or dog shit, (Jerry’s really good at spotting it, but apparently unable to pick it up for some unfathomable reason) or the only one to run errands because I’m the only one who’s sober.  Living like that – as a sort of an indentured servant- doesn’t do much for one’s emotional and spiritual wellbeing.  I’ve said it before that my marriage at best is sort of a symbiotic relationship, but at worst, is more like a parasite-host relationship, which is sad but often true.  I try to regard Jerry’s indifference in context because he really does care more about beer and football and cigarettes than pretty much anything else.  Therefore I need to stick to my own agenda and interests- and fantasy life if that’s all I have, if I have any hope of staying remotely sane.

drawing butts

I wish I had the courage to reach out to an old friend (though paramour would probably be a more accurate word) and lay it on the line.  Even if I risk rejection (oh, and believe me, I do,) my heart hasn’t changed in over 20 years. I have to come clean with how I felt then and still feel today, and admit it, even though the time and the circumstances probably aren’t any more “right” than they were back then.

That sort of honesty has always seemed to me to have far more risk than reward.  I am so terrible at reading the motives and behavior of others.  I have enough trouble with my own motivations to try to figure out what sort of mischief is brewing in other people’s minds.

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assorted rants, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

Extra Early White Death! Yay!- And Don’t Smoke on the Bus!

easton winter

 

I don’t mind winter as much as some people do.  The cold really doesn’t get to me that bad, but I do get wigged out by the dark.  Dark when I wake up (but then again, it’s always dark when I get up, usually between 4:15 and 4:30,) dark when I go to work, dark when I get home.  The only time I see daylight is on the weekends between November and April, and that is depressing.

November 17th is quite early for a first significant snow in beautiful Central Ohio.  Usually the greater Columbus area is spared from the White Death until at least mid-December, because we sit in a valley and most of the weather goes either north or south of us, but not this time.   We got about 4″ of snow, which isn’t as bad as further north, but it’s not typical this early.  It doesn’t break my heart that we miss most of the epic snowfalls that occur in Northeast Ohio.  Cleveland can have it.

vintage-ads-disease

Just another public service announcement from the 1940’s.

Wrap that rascal, bub!

I have to wonder about the state of this crazy assed world.  I still wonder why they let school buses stop on the major thoroughfares during rush hour when there are parking lots close by where the buses can pull in and pick up kids without a.) stopping traffic, and b.) endangering kids by having them wander out close to the major thoroughfares.  I don’t see where stopping traffic for miles is a time saver for anyone.

school bus

I do remember that when I was a little kid and had to ride the bus that the bus driver set the rules. Period.  I had no problems at all while I was on the bus. My problems with riding the bus were before the bus got there and after the bus left.  That’s when I ended up either head first in the bushes or head first in the trash barrel. When I was on the bus and in my place in the geeky-nerd-kid-with-thick-glasses-and-bad-clothes-seat- directly behind the driver- I was fine.   Big John was the driver, and he didn’t take any crap from any kids.  If you misbehaved on Big John’s bus, you got thrown off. Literally.  As far as I was concerned, the seat behind the driver was the Safest Seat, and the one I took every time.  I wasn’t going to have any conflict with Big John.

head first

One morning two of the older boys, neither of whom were terribly bright, and both of whom were known trouble makers, decided to sit in the very back seat of the bus and fire up their Marlboros.  This was a highly unwise move.  I no sooner smelled a faint whiff of smoke than Big John slammed the brakes, flipped down the aisle, opened the back door and tossed both boys right out the back of the bus.  Then Big John turned around and addressed the remaining kids on the bus with, “You smoke on my bus, I throw you out.  Get it?”

bad smoker

Go take your cigs anywhere but Big John’s bus.

Today that would be a lawsuit. Someone today would stir up some kind of horse shit about the two boys being learning disabled (they were, but even they had enough upstairs to understand the bus rules) and therefore completely unaccountable for their actions.   Back then, whether you were in the LD class or not, there were consequences for breaking the rules.  Those two boys, to my knowledge, never rode Big John’s bus again.

throw rubbish

But I think it is perfectly OK to throw miscreant boys off the bus for lighting up a smoke.

That was a much simpler world.

Now the rest of society is stuck having to pander to this or that special condition or bullshit excuse as to why person X doesn’t have to adhere to the rules that are applicable to everyone else.

I know I’m not “normal” or anywhere close to it.  I’ve always known that.  I’ve also discovered that it’s on me to adjust.  I’m not the one running the train, or the one ringing the bell.

If I have a dietary restriction, then I need to bring my own meals, or make do with the available edibles.  Being diabetic I am well aware of that.  Either I bring suitable comestibles or adjust my dining experience accordingly.  If I know my friends don’t have diet soda, for example, then I’ll either a.) bring my own, or b.) drink plain water or black coffee.  I’m not going to pitch a fit because someone didn’t make an exception to accommodate my need for sugar free drinks.  I don’t expect people to go out of their way to have Tab or Diet Dr. Pepper just for me.  The same principle goes for people with dietary sensitivities or allergies.  If you know it will kill you to eat peanuts, then don’t go diving into the cookies and desserts unless you know ahead of time what’s in them- or bring your own peanut-free ones.

killer peanuts

Just don’t eat it if you know it might kill you.

I know I’ve gone on and on about the entitlement mentality, and the whole concept of special privileges for the mollycoddled few, and it really pisses me off. Now I get to deal with parents with young kids who think that other people should do their work for them while they stay home with their kids and get paid to do it.  What makes their kids more special than my son?  The kid I had to leave with a sitter (on my dime, of course) or in daycare for 8-12 hours a day, 5 days a week (or more) from the age of 8 weeks until he was about 13 (unless he was in school), because I had to work?  I’m sorry, but that torques me. Why are your child care issues my problem?  Either stay at home with your kid and suck it up, or do what everyone else had to do- put your kid in daycare and drag your ass to work. You can’t have it both ways.  I sure didn’t.  And I’m not (willingly) going to cover for you.

Child Care

So, if you’ve decided to breast feed until the kid hits puberty, sorry about your luck.

Unless you are independently wealthy, that is.

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creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest

Something Missing, Something Wrong

winter-scene-john-junek

I loved you the best that I was able.  I could never be the fawning admirer you wanted.  I could not bring myself to that depth of surrender.  I am not good at putting up faςades.  I wasn’t really made for maudlin sentiment or to shower forth vapid praise.

I became jaded and pragmatic and utilitarian out of practicality and necessity.  Living in the embers of unrequited love is just too bitter if you hold on to baseless optimism.  Some things are once in a lifetime offers, and once that flower blooms and fades it’s gone forever.

Even so, I remember.  I remember in vivid, living, breathing color.  I remember all too much and all too well beneath the banality of day to day, in my raw core, beneath the faςades I have to maintain. We were for a moment lost in that timeless, breathless universe of two, where time stopped and for a moment there was only you and me.  This we cannot deny, and I cannot forget.

I remember the intensity, the passion, and the fire.  I know you remember too.  I walk through your dreams. I’m there when you least expect me, a reminder of what was, what could have been, and what will never be.

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historical interest, misanthropy, miscellaneous drivel

The Unsung Delights of Middle Age, and No One Sends Me Flowers (Just Send Cash Instead ;))

backward swimsuit

 

Middle age has its distinct disadvantages, but there are some distinct advantages to be had for the cougar/geezer set that most people don’t think about.

 

1. No one asks (begs, coerces, etc.) you to be a bridesmaid in her wedding.  This is a very beautiful thing, considering the last time I had to do that was in 1993 , and I’m still pissed at my oldest sister for that outlay of cash and aggravation.

fugly dress

No, I’m NOT wearing that- or any other dress without sleeves.  Ever.

At my advanced age I don’t have to worry about it. Nobody in her right mind wants my freaky ass in her wedding pictures. My sisters are the only ones who didn’t let me decline the bridesmaid thing graciously. One has been married since 1993 (thank God because there is no amount of coercion that will make me do the bridesmaid thing again- ever) and the other is happily divorced.  Anyone else who makes that request, I can and will tell to go blow with impunity, but my friends pretty much know better than to ask.  I’ll gladly attend your wedding and even buy you crap, (or get you a Target gift card,) but that’s the extent of my involvement.

2. Aunt Flo doesn’t visit any more.  Not since the hysterectomy.  I couldn’t be more delighted with that.

 

coffee and boobs

Hot flashes suck- but I can wear white pants any time I want!

3. Older people have a certain amount of gravitas in dealings with the young and inexperienced.  I also have buff young college boys asking me if I need help with my groceries.  I don’t need help with my groceries, though it would be nice when I get home with them if Jerry didn’t disappear every time I’m unloading the car.

Young woman unpacking shopping bag in kitchen

I already brought in the cat litter, dog food, beer, (which I don’t drink) and 12 packs of pop.

Come to think of it, I don’t shit in the cat litter or eat the dog food either, but they don’t have thumbs.

Granted, nobody bothers to send me flowers but I have no idea what to do with them.  They sit on my desk for a few days, die, and then I throw them out.

ugly flowers

Just give me the cash.

Back in the day there was no such thing as political correctness in the clothing industry. We can all remember when fat boys’ clothes were called “Husky.”  I don’t think they have “Husky” sizes any more.

chubbies

Even Lane Bryant doesn’t use the “Chubby” word anymore, even when referring to size Extreme Lard Ass.

Imagine the politically correct furor that would ensue should any clothier use an ad like the one pictured above.  Stand back and watch the fireworks.  However, in the 1950’s virtually nobody was fat, so this ad would only apply to a handful of girls rather than most of them.

I say just make everything a one-size-fits-all mu-muu if your ass is that huge.

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assorted rants, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary, theology

Simply Unpredictable, and It’s Not Nice…

new ohio map

 

Frequently I am accused of either changing the subject or coming up with weird stuff out of the clear blue sky.   Of course the connections make sense to me, but my particular road map doesn’t have the freeways routed in the same places as yours.  I can get to the same places- some faster, some slower, depending upon what freeways I have available to ride.

Oh, cool, there is an I-69! But, why, oh why, is it in Indiana? In the middle of the flat cornfields?  Wonder how many of those signs have been stolen?  Then again, truckers are probably the only ones on that road, and those boys ain’t stoppin’.  Judging from the number of trucker bombs I see along I-270 (this is the Columbus outerbelt, where there are all kinds of exits and usable bathrooms) I can imagine the truckers out in BFE aren’t stopping for anything.

trucker bomb

This is not apple juice, Mountain Dew, or lemonade.  It’s PISS.

I am trying to curb the temptation to engage in a sort of mental victory dance regarding the Republican sweep of Tuesday’s midterm elections.  Obama is now muzzled to a degree, which is definitely a plus, but my worry is whether or not the newly elected Republicans will stand their ground and do what the American people want them to do, which is to stop Obama’s insanity.   Republicans should not in any way “cooperate” with the moonbats who are actively destroying this country with overregulation and over taxation. They should  close the borders immediately to illegal immigration, and end taxpayer funded payouts to illegals, as well as to terrorist harboring countries and the perennially lazy.  They must revitalize and strengthen our military, and put an end to insane political correctness.  We who voted for them have to hold their feet to the fire.  These affronts to the Constitution and to American people need to be addressed, rooted out, and corrected NOW.   Even so, as much as I loathe Obama and what he stands for, and much as I would love to see him rode out on a rail, now he sits as the ultimate poster child for “Why Not to Vote for Democrats.” At this point it would be better to let Obama ride out his term pretty much impotent and toothless and completely bonkers than to impeach him.   Hopefully the rancid taste Obama has left in this country’s mouth will extend to Hillary and Obama’s other moonbat crazy cronies in 2016.  I have a very strong hope that it will.

 

bad habits

I know I engage in sarcasm.  All the time. It’s one of the things that keeps me somewhat sane.  I am not politically correct.  I would not even consider myself to be particularly “nice.”  Most of the time, if I’m being overly nice, it’s because I hear my mother (sort of like a Jiminy Cricket) telling me I’m being rude, or that I’m staring again.

I know I’m not nice.  Neither is anyone else, should we all be honest about it.  That age-old human conflict of good vs. evil is always there, even when I pray in the Lord’s Prayer, “Thy will be done.”  “Thy will,” is very seldom “my will,” save for divine intervention.

Jiminy Cricket

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…

I know it was mean to let him keep on shoveling in the cat food, but it was funny.  And he wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.

I haven’t been trolling in the postmortem pics a whole lot lately, but I know how wildly popular old pictures of dead people are, as creepy as that is.  I had one sitting in my personal archives that I am still sort of wondering about:

obviously dead3

Let’s play “Spot the Dead Dude.”

I think they’re both dead, which makes this pic extra creepy.  Dude on the right is most certainly dead, or else he’s really, really stoned.  As you can see, he’s being propped up on one of those Keith Richards guitar stand type frames.  The dude on the left is a bit harder to determine.  If he’s not dead, he seems to be way too pleasant for standing that close to a dead dude.  Either that or he’s being held up by a broom handle stuck up his ass.  You decide.

 

 

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