An Unexpected Blast from the Past, A Self-Esteem Boost at Walmart, and a Strange History

May 27, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I was a bit delighted as well as taken aback this morning at seeing my long-time most favorite singer, Steve Perry appearing live on stage again. I even liked the song he performed with the Eels (a band I didn’t know existed until today) even though the more prudy types would be offended by the language in it.

Sometimes coarse language is the only way to describe aptly the frustration and pain in one’s heart. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to go there again, although in my heart of hearts I know I will.

It’s still a good song, and for a guy of Steve’s age and ill health, he still sounds good.

Every time I go to Walmart with Steve-o it’s a new adventure. First he was pissed because he couldn’t find the one kind of deodorant he likes – Axe Phoenix, the blue gel, NOT the white paste- except in a two pack. I thought I was cheap. I told him, he has two pits, so why not a deodorant stick for each pit? Just label them “right” and “left” as borderline OCD as he can be. Finally he decided it would just be easier to buy two, as if he’s not going to use one up in a week or two anyway? It must be the opposite of the Costco mentality- buy barely enough for a few days, then make a trip to buy more. Personally if I have the scratch (and he has more than I do) then I usually buy in quantity- not only for the discount per unit, but to save myself a trip.

Of course we encountered the Freaky People of Walmart en masse- such as the morbidly obese woman who probably was not even 30 yet, trolling about in the little battery powered Mart Cart, sporting her bleach blonde ends and about three inches of black roots, and a plethora of extremely poor quality tats on a good portion of the exposed surface area.

When your ass is bigger than a Toyota Corolla, that “bright, Corvette-like finish” on your lard-ass cart is a sure bonus!

I guess my quandaries about the Mart Carts are:

1. How do they actually move under the suffocating heft of their passengers? If a normal sized person got in one and took off in it, would it set land speed records?

2. Is the minimum weight requirement at least 300#? Because I’ve never seen anyone under 300# trolling about in one of those.

3. Do they use deep cycle batteries, sort of like for boat trolling motors- or more like the batteries in a Prius?

4. Would the need for the carts be vastly diminished if some of the riders got off of their behemoth asses and actually walked a bit while in the store?

I sort of enjoyed Jelly Roll woman too. She wasn’t quite large enough for the carts (give her time, she was probably in her early 20’s) though I don’t think she realized that a cherry red tube top is a poor fashion choice when your body sort of resembles the Michelin Man’s. The badly done pink dye job on her hair and misspelled neck tats (when one is trying to say, “Missy loves Ray” it is not spelled “love’s“) were the icing on that cake. Woof. I am glad I didn’t have the pleasure of feasting my oculars upon “Ray.”

Then again, it’s Steve-o’s reactions to the wildlife of Walmart that I find absolutely priceless. Such as when he was looking for that men’s three-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body wash, and a rather large girl in low rise Daisy Dukes bent over right in front of him, exposing a rather hairy and somewhat substantial ass crack.

I thought he was going to hurl right down her shorts. That would have been camera-worthy, if only I had the courage. I don’t take pics in Walmart precisely because the wildlife are large enough to devour me in one bite, or to sit on me and squash me like the unfortunate “lost” Chihuahua in the “Lost Dog” cartoon.

Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t remember people being so flipping fat. I feel like a freaking anorexic when I go to Walmart, and I’m no Calista Flockhart by any stretch. The rural areas are absolutely the worst, as far as the really behemoth size 20+ underwear wearing chicks – (and there’s plenty of hefty dudes too) as if they have nothing better to do than watch Direct TV and tie on the feed bag. I can understand that in those places, though. There really isn’t much to do. Even screwing must get boring after awhile.

In defense of the portly rural poor, healthy food is expensive. It’s really cheap to go and get a bunch of store brand snackies or ramen noodles and mac and cheese if you don’t have much cash. It’s not so cheap to buy fresh produce (I even balk at that- frozen is cheaper and it’s less wasteful) or lean meat, or to buy minimally processed ingredients to prepare and cook one’s own food. A can of Spaghetti-os is a lot easier (and cheaper) lunch option than grilled white chicken on wheat with provolone, tomato, lettuce, onion and mustard on wheat toast. I have been there and done that. Canned and processed stuff is cheap and easy but will lead one down the primrose path to lardassism with the quickness.

I do love me some Skettios and Doritos, though! mmmmm!

As an aside, I just got put on hold and was subjected to a rather odious rap “song.” The only lyrics I could make out were:

Prestone

Body

Daddy

Anything you like

Whoever included those words and phrases in a song needs some serious psychotherapy time. Either that, or I just can’t make any sense of rap.

Collecting More Eclectic Ephemera, and Someone Lost a Shoe on the Interstate

May 21, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I don’t understand how shoes end up on the Interstate. I have heard the urban legend that states that tying a pair of shoes together and tossing them over a power line indicates that someone nearby is selling the reefer, but I don’t think that the median of I-71 would be a good place to score some chronic.

Another theory I have is that the nimrods one sees on the freeway (usually teenage kids) who like to put their feet on the dashes and out car windows occasionally have a shoe blown off, which would constitute one of those “actions lead to consequences” sort of lessons. As in, your mother is going to kick your butt sideways when she realizes you just lost one of a pair of $100 Reeboks.

Then there is always the prankster possibility- Jimmy’s sleeping like death in the back seat, so now’s the time to chuck his DCs out the moon roof. Fun and laffs-laffs-laffs for everyone, except Jimmy, who will now have to wear his little sister’s Hello Kitty pink flip flops for the duration of the vacation.

Oh so manly. Not. But, not being a man, I wish they made these in adult women’s sizes.

I can also understand tossing footwear out the window when and if it smells like six week old rancid pork chops that have been marinating in horse piss and used cat litter. This actually happened on a road trip to North Carolina with my parents and my then teenaged son. The POMC wears a bizarre size- 13 AA- so when he finally finds a pair of comfy shoes, they cost out the wazoo (and he is even more cheap than I am- except with his motor sport needs) and he wears them until they literally fall apart. I remember these shoes all too well- a pair of highly distressed and duct-taped Etnies that I had once had to special order and paid $100 + for, but by that time they had been worn, used and abused until the very thinnest pieces of soles remained.

The Etnies were nice shoes when they were new- but not after 2 years of Steve-o abuse.

And they smelled. Horrible. I came much too close to paying a brief and intense visit with Cousin Ralph getting a whiff of that, and I have almost no sense of smell. It had to be deadly for anyone with a normal sense of smell to be anywhere near that funk.

So when Steve-o decided, somewhere on I-71 in rural Kentucky, that it would be a good idea to remove the shoes, peel off the socks, and let his bird claws air out, a green and thick stench wafted through the Venture van like a malevolent, pasty sewage-y fog.

I thought Mom was going to hurl right out the passenger side window. It is only by a Miracle of God that she didn’t spew the Burrito Supreme and Taco Salad she’d just scarfed about an hour earlier at Taco Bell all down the side of the van. The sight of used Taco Bell splattering down the side of the van and onto the freeway coupled with that evil green miasma that was permeating the interior of the van would have guaranteed a mass uprising of various stomach contents.

I’m sure it doesn’t taste as good on the way back up.

Traveling alone does help one to avoid the hazards of traveling with others- noxious smells, dangerous driving, and the unappetizing visuals of blood relatives who are dead to the world, open-mouthed and snoring like freight trains.

I rather enjoyed my solo road trip to NC last week. The only thing I really didn’t like was all the rudeness and bad driving I encountered on the way home. Apparently assholes are universal, or they were having a convention on I-75 northbound all through Kentucky. I don’t know why everyone in the south seems to think they are NASCAR drivers or some crap.

I was also able to avoid tourist traps and kitschy restaurants by bringing my own chow and only stopping for gasoline and to get coffee and pee. I didn’t encounter any worthy souvenirs this way, but then again I didn’t end up getting taken for various overpriced hillbilly swag.

That was almost a sad thing, failing to bring back some sort of memento. Next time I take a trip like that I should make it a point to stop off at some of those shops along the Interstate just to see if there is anything worth having other than homemade fudge, moonshine (now legal in Tennessee!) or shot glasses.

God Loves a Hot Mess, and the Devil Is in the Details

May 9, 2014Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

All I can think is that God must love a hot mess, which is good news for me. The past two weeks have been rather crazy. I’ve had to make some difficult decisions, two of them in saying no to things and situations that would have been desirable- except that the devil is in the details.

I did get to say yes to the car, which I had been mulling about for awhile, and the pieces came together fortuitously on that one.

But I had to turn down taking in a beautiful black Malinois (still a bit despondent over that one) because Jerry insisted on taking in Lucy last October. I couldn’t say no to that, especially since we had lost Sheena last May.

Lucy, while she is a sweet dog, is definitely not a Malinois. Lucy is a hot mess of a willful, disobedient and destructive Beagle mixed with English Bulldog (why, oh why would someone interbreed that combo on purpose?) Clara, my (1/2 Malinois) sweet pleaser, obeys hand commands and head nods (she’s that intuitive) and Lilo, just knows and follows the routine. I am still carrying Lucy to her crate in the mornings. She does not go to the crate of her own volition even though she knows she is going to end up there one way or another.

In the words of the philosopher/theologian Mick Jagger: “You can’t always get what you want/You can try sometimes/You just might find/You get what you need.”

Sometimes what I want and what I need are two completely different things.

I discovered last week that even though I’ve been away from the automotive dealer scene for almost fifteen years, just how easy it would be for me to go right back to where I was before (different place, same type of job.) I was given the opportunity to do that. I really, really wanted to, but again, the devil is in the details. Thankfully I came to my senses and realized that 1. working straight commission is no way to live, because you end up living at work, and 2. it would be so easy to go back to that work-as-a-drug power trip euphoria.

The problem with that is when I live that way my entire identity becomes what (and how well) I’m doing versus who I am being. And that is some scary shit. That’s what landed me in my doctor’s office with ischemic attacks, bleeds in the scleras of both eyes and uncontrolled high blood pressure. That’s what got me the lecture from my doctor (when I was 30) that I wouldn’t live to see 35 unless I changed my lifestyle.

I made it to 45, so I must be doing something right, but in a rather unexpected and unsolicited job offer I learned something about myself that I don’t particularly like.

I like being in control. I really like it, and if I’m honest with myself I find that’s what’s been pissing me off for so long. I don’t like being talked down to. I don’t like having to work within inefficient processes and inane policies that I don’t have the authority to change. I don’t like being held responsible for bad outcomes that I had no hand in creating- and that I don’t have the authority to fix. I don’t like being controlled by people who shouldn’t be in the positions they’re in. I don’t like being in a position where challenging the status quo is an exercise in futility.

The bad thing is that in any environment where one has to deal with people, all of the noxious roadblocks to harmonious living, good business, and successful outcomes listed above are right there, wherever one may go. So it’s better to deal with the devil you know than to buy into a whole ‘nother demon who may be even worse.

I remember reading somewhere that the devil can be in all the things you really, really want. It sort of reminds me of when Satan tempted Jesus with all the kingdoms of the world- that somehow selling your soul is worth all the stuff you get in exchange.

I really don’t want to make deals with the devil.

While it’s not good for me to be the one in charge, it’s also not good for me to play the whipping post. If only I could avoid either extreme. I’ve been doing “whipping post” for way too long, which is what made my out of the blue offer look so attractive.

Maybe somewhere along the line I went from brash hard ass to completely losing my voice (in a figurative way) and that’s another vexing place to be.

Side Effects May Include “Death,” But At Least I’m Enjoying the Ride

April 30, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I have to wonder at all these TV ads for various prescription meds. There are a lot of them- especially the ones for rheumatoid arthritis and psoriasis- that actually say in their disclaimers that using that drug can lead to death. I think I’d rather deal with joint pain and skin rash. The last time I checked, stiff and inflamed joints and/or unsightly skin are just a tad bit less severe than death. Of course you have to weigh the risks vs. benefits when you decide whether or not to take a certain medication, but I try to steer clear of the ones where “death” is listed as a possible side effect. I’m not a fan of “occasional bleeding from the eye sockets” or “prolonged anal itching” either.

I know that the trial lawyers are always trolling about to strike it big on the pharmaceutical companies because someone dies (or is somehow maimed) from a side effect of a drug. There’s always a commercial on telling people they can get compensation if their son’s ADHD meds gave him titties, or if the pelvic mesh or the artificial hip gives out, or if that pesky vision loss brought on by gratuitous use of ED meds just won’t go away.

Speaking of rides, I am enjoying mine immensely. I am quite impressed with the Corolla so far. Usually I know pretty well what I will and won’t like from the build sheet and tech specs.

This car doesn’t really scream “mom sedan” like the older Corollas. I had a 1998 (that was the last Corolla I had) that I really liked- but it was a bit on the frumpy side. That’s why I just had to have the 2000 Celica when it came out. I did take a moment to drool over the Scion FRS while I was at the dealer, but I need a four door, and I really don’t want to attract the attention of law enforcement. This Corolla is about the same size as the older Camrys and is quite a bit larger than the Yaris, but it still doesn’t feel like a land yacht. The steering and suspension are a lot more responsive than the Yaris (not a surprise there) and it doesn’t get blown around in the wind like the Yaris did.

The freaky thing about this car is the electronics. It has navigation and Bluetooth and all the toys (which I am still learning) and those things are pretty fun.

Of course I am weird in how I buy cars. I know pretty much exactly what I want before I even contact a dealer, and I know pretty much what I’m willing to pay. I know the tech specs – all that stuff about suspensions, transaxles, engine displacement, torque, horsepower, etc. – and features better than most salespeople, although the navigation and smartkey options are new to me.

I’ve always appreciated the four cylinder sports car- along the lines of the ’83 VW GTI or the 2000 Celica, both of which I can still smack myself for trading off- but in practical application I’ve had more four cylinder econoboxes and mom sedans.

I think I’ve found an interesting compromise here.

A Clockwork Heart, Burned Out, and Possibly Quite Nuts

April 24, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I’ve always admired the art of clockwork.

I was a holdout on analog watches (watches with actual moving pieces inside them- and imagine it- hands!) for a long time. I wore an old windy-type analog watch (and that old Timex from 1970-whatever still works) for many years even when digital watches were easy to get. I still have a nice Fossil analog watch I wear on occasion, although it has a quartz battery movement which has fewer moving pieces and is more accurate than traditional clockwork, and doesn’t need winding.

There’s something to be said for the representation of time as movement, because time does move. A metronome moves (at least the traditional ones do) back and forth keeping time as it moves, and as the rhythm of music moves it keeps time. There’s something about that tick-tick-tick of a conventional metronome that is comforting and maddening at the same time.

Even with my bad coordination I could play music. As a bass player – and this has been a very long time ago- it was infinitely important to feel the rhythm and play along with the drummer. Drummers are generally sort of weird people- but perhaps that’s because they are in tune with natural rhythm more than most. I don’t claim to understand it, but regardless of the instrument, the rhythm has to be there first, a skeleton to clothe with the melodies and harmonies and chords.

Although I did enjoy playing bass, it got to be too painful for my hands and wrists and shoulders with the joint damage I have. I am a singer- the voice is still there- though I don’t use it much anymore. I learned a long time ago that it doesn’t matter if a woman has a good voice if she doesn’t have the body or the stage presence to go along with it. I might enjoy singing, but there’s no way in hell I could ever make a living doing it. There’s no visual to go along with the auditory. I gave up on that a long time ago too. I can sing in church. That’s good enough, and it keeps me out of trouble.

Dudes do metal better than chicks anyway.

The coolness of Metallica aside, right now I’m fried. Fried in so very many ways that I can’t see daylight.

I don’t like admitting weakness, but it’s harder and harder to keep up that “iron guts” faςade these days.

I’ve been reading a book (The Joshua Code by O. S. Hawkins) that gives some commentary and encourages one to memorize a Bible verse per week in each of its 52 chapters. This week’s verse is John 11:35, which is the shortest verse in the Bible- “Jesus wept.”

There are times that for the love of God I wish I could weep. Sometimes I think the reason why I find it so incredibly difficult to cry is that I’m afraid once I get started that the tears won’t stop. I may be an emotional desert, but when it does rain it pours. Worse yet for me, the tears come largely unbidden, without any kind of reason, and are virtually impossible to control.

As if control were everything? As if I have control over anything?

It’s curious that in my own personal economy, showing emotion=weakness. I don’t like to be seen as fragile, human or vulnerable even though I know good and damned well I am all of the above.

Maybe that’s why I’d rather sing. It’s sort of a stealthy way of showing emotion, after all- unless I’m singing something that for some reason sets off the tears- and that happens too.

Oh, and my new ride just came in. 2014 Corolla S Plus. Black metallic, black interior…

I wasn’t going to do it. Until I discovered just how feasible it is. It helps not having a credit rating that’s in the toilet. I’m going tonight to drive it and hopefully get paperwork, etc. done. There’s nothing wrong with my Yaris (and getting a new car wasn’t entirely my idea) but having pretty much the same drivetrain I had in my Celica (which was a 1.8L 5 speed manual) in a sedan is going to be fun. Especially because this is a VVTi 1.8L 6 speed manual, which to the non-techie means I gain about 40 HP over what I have in the Yaris (Cliff’s notes- more power!). With every possible toy known to man, except for the automatic, which I absolutely don’t want anyway. From what I see on the build sheet this car was custom built for the 13%.

* 13% of American drivers prefer manual transmissions, which means we generally don’t get many options when compared with the 87% who for some whacked out reason don’t like to shift when they drive.

I’m only going to live once, and it’s not like it’s a Porsche. It’s a Corolla…as in mom sedan, but with a bit of a twist. If I’d really wanted to go over the edge I’d have gone for the Scion FR-S. But I need the 4 doors, have a hard time seeing out of something that sits that low to the ground, and I don’t want to be cop bait.

Tempting, but not very practical.

More on the new ride later- the Corolla- after I get to drive it.

Discipline Your Kids, A Fresh Outlook, and I Need a Road Trip- Bad

April 17, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Do your kids a favor- teach them to behave like civilized people- at least in public!

When I was growing up in the dark ages of the 1970s-early 1980s, acting out in public was a sure fire way to get yourself beaten into the next county by the next nearest adult. If you were unfortunate enough to be beaten out in public by a non-parental adult, when one’s parents did find out, (and they always did) you were beaten again- to make sure you were beaten good enough. Now people are afraid to even say anything to someone else’s miscreant child, fearing the wrath and possible litigation by the parents. That sucks. There are a good number of kids I see out in public that could use a good old fashioned hiney-warming. I’d do it… if I thought the parents would have the good sense to back me up. I guess they would rather announce to the world that their children are being raised by wolves than to administer a bit of well placed correction.

There was no sparing the rod (or spoiling this child) in my family. Believe that.

Mom (being the good Catholic mother she aspired to be) would beat the daylights out of you for messing up the Catholic Calisthenics during Mass. Even if you were a toddler (sorry, NO nursery) you did not sit when the rest of the congregation kneeled, nor did you stand when the rest of the congregation sat. You did not have a coloring book, crayons or Cheerios. You sang every word to every hymn, and you did not fail to respond with the correct responses as printed in the Missal.

The word “Missal”- for those who were fortunate enough to have been raised in a Protestant tradition-isn’t a typo. I am a bit of a spelling Nazi after all. “Missal” is sort of the Catholic how-to guide to Mass, and is never to be used as a “missile,” as in a projectile to throw at an annoying sibling. Even though my sisters did.

Siblings fight. So why do people have multiple children? Especially if one of them just ends up being a punching bag?

As an adult I can appreciate liturgical worship- and I do- but it was baffling to me as a kid.

Sunday morning Mass sort of went like this:

Dad drops us off at church. Dad did not do Mass. Ever. He would be back in about an hour or two. Church wasn’t Dad’s cup of tea, especially in a church where, as he would say, “the preacher wears a dress.”

Follow Mom up the steps and (unless you wanted dragged out by the hair and back handed within an inch of your life) don’t forget to bless yourself with holy water and genuflect (another foreign word for Protestants- kneel before you walk down the aisle to find a seat because you’re approaching the altar) before sitting in whatever seat she thinks you should sit in. Mom liked to park us in the second or third pew from the very front- where the priest can be sure to give you the stink eye any time the word “hell” is mentioned. Hope and pray that (as usual) I didn’t get sandwiched between both sisters and therefore was open to assault from both sides.

Find the Missal. Follow the instructions to the letter even while being poked, prodded, pinched and wet willie’d from both sides.

Spend a few minutes wondering why Jesus chooses to live in the funky gold box where the communion wafers were stored- when He’s not out and about looking for sins and finding reasons why you should go to hell, that is.

Sing the closing hymn and hope Mom didn’t decide to chit-chat with every single one of her old bitty friends on the way out, although it was inevitable that she would.

It’s a wonder – or should I say a gift of the Spirit- that I can set foot in church at all. But that is a very long story.

I do appreciate the aesthetic of Gothic architecture, especially if we don’t try to jack it up by doing a “70s update” on a 19th century (or earlier) building. The church I went to as a kid was one of those beautiful Gothic style churches- until someone decided the interior needed a cheesy 70s update that included green astroturf carpet, everything painted white and green (acck!) and just plain hokey furniture. Either you want to go modern or have the Gothic aesthetic, but the two styles don’t mix. It’s church, not steampunk (which is half ways tolerable, ’cause steampunk is cool) and definitely not the set of “The Price is Right,” which is what that hideous “renovation” reminded me of.

Just substitute green for red, and that was pretty much how tacky it looked.

Church would have been a bit more interesting with Bob Barker. At least when I was a little kid. Grandma loved “The Price is Right.” That was back when Bob Barker still dyed his hair.

I need a road trip but don’t really have anywhere I want to go or, should I say, can afford to go and have time to go. I still want to go to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia and I’m going to have to figure out the logistics. I have to go to my nephew’s graduation in NC next month, but that’s more of a “have to” than a recreational pursuit. Not to mention Dad scares the living hell out of me with his need for speed while driving in the mountains. I’ve never been comfortable with mountain driving- especially considering we will probably be in their Dodge minivan. It will probably be my luck it will be rainy and windy too while he’s going 90MPH down a 6% grade.

The last time I let Dad drive on a road trip, I closed my eyes and put the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Sedated” on repeat. That helped.

I really, really need some quality ivory tower time, as in several days of being completely away from dealing with other humans. The bad thing is that’s not going to happen.

You Don’t Get Out of Life Alive, but, Choose Your Battles Wisely

April 3, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

My son didn’t ask, but mothers are pretty good at unsolicited advice in life and love and all those things that are only somewhat discerned by merit of age and time. If I were to try to explain to him why he should abandon the “friends with benefits” arrangement he’s got going on with the ex-stripper, it would go something like this:

The great theologian and philosopher Axl Rose (of Guns-N-Roses fame) once stated in his version of Bob Dylan’s “Knocking on Heaven’s Door,” that, “You don’t get out of life alive.” I also understand his point about both the bank and the mortician- the two inevitabilities of this life are death and taxes. Nobody escapes either of those. Nobody escapes the common human dilemma of finding one’s way through life and surviving in the process, either, though some do a better job of it than others.

As far as the wisdom of the concepts of “not getting out of life alive,” and “you can’t take it with you,” go, both sort of go along with the Biblical admonition to give one’s life as an offering. You were created to have a purpose in this life, even if it’s simply one of being an example of what not to do, or serving to expand others’ vocabularies. We all came into the world naked and not having any stuff, and we all go out the same way, so what are you going to do with the time in-between?

We all know that our physical bodies are going to become worm food. There are a few things worth sacrificing and fighting for, precisely because we cannot preserve youth and health and wholeness in these physical bodies, or for that matter, youth and health and wholeness in any aspect of our lives. Entropy WILL win. Systems all eventually break down, if you want to frame the inevitability of entropy in tech geek terms. Life in this world is a finite proposition.

The question is, what do you do with the finite resources you have been given, that you can acquire, that you can pool with others?

It’s great if you can amass all kinds of wealth and get all the best stuff, and prepare for every possible contingency, but in the end, what do you do on that night when your life is required of you? (I’m referring to what Jesus said in Luke 12:13-21.)

If you don’t get what really matters, then who cares about money or power or prestige or stuff?

I’m not going to go on a morality-chastity-clean living rant, because I am no poster child for any of the aforementioned. I have never been a paragon of virtue. I am a Christian, but that is only by the grace of God. He left me to my rebellion and own devices for awhile (about seven years’ worth) so I could see just how much trouble I could get into out there in the pig pen. I got a rather nasty taste of how nasty and depraved I can be apart from a relationship with God. Finally, I realized, again, by the grace of God, like C.S. Lewis did, that if I were going to be sane and worth anything to myself and others, that it was and is Christ or nothing.

That realization does not make me more virtuous or more moral or more prudy. It does not make me less human or less fallible. It does make me all the more aware that anything good anyone sees in me is not my inherent goodness, but the goodness of God. I fail a lot, but apart from Him I fail and screw up a lot more.

Yes, Christians are hypocrites. Get over it. So is everyone else. I can say that, but for the grace of God, I would be a LOT worse. I need God precisely because I know how depraved and hopeless I am without Him.

All these theological and philosophical observations being said, and back to the assertion that one of my purposes in life is to serve as an example of what not to do, I will give you a heartfelt admonition.

If you are one of those people who are blessed enough to find true love in this life, don’t let it go. I know that it can and does happen, even if it is too late for me.

Part of the reason why I can be so cynical and snarky when I consider matters of the heart is because true love has always eluded me. I’ve been used, abandoned, exploited and deeply damaged by people who claimed to “love” me. My wiring is such that I don’t understand or communicate very well in the emotional realm. To add insult to injury, most men are intimidated by intelligent women, and most men are not terribly thrilled with plain and frumpy looking women. I blend in to the wall pretty well. It’s a survival mechanism. At no time in my life were dudes ever banging down my door. If they did talk to me it was to get my phone number- so they could call my sisters. I was even voted, “Least Likely to Get Laid” in my (unofficial) high school senior will. So I felt like I had to take what I could get, even if it meant settling for minimum standards such as, “vertical and sucking up valuable oxygen.”

Hair and teeth optional, especially at my age.

I hate to admit it, but all I can say about my own marriage is that at best it’s a symbiotic relationship, but a good deal of the time it’s more like a parasite vs. host relationship. Maybe it’s harsh to call Jerry a parasite, but he can and does suck the life out of me with his incessant whining and infantile demands. He didn’t need a wife, he needed a mommy. And I’m not all that great at playing the mommy role, but it’s all I have to offer. I haven’t gotten a better offer, and even if I did, I would be morally obligated to decline it. In Jerry’s defense, he has put up with me for all of these years, as frumpy and plain looking as I am, and as eccentric as I am. That says something- although in Jerry’s mind it’s probably, “there’s someone in this world who will fetch my beer and smokes for me.”

But if you find true love, that indescribable and blissful universe of two, understand what it is. Hold it, cherish it, fight for it, and never let it go. Otherwise you will find yourself in the same predicament I am- either completely alone, or bound by a sense of duty(?) pity (?) desperation (?) to someone who only cares about you as long as you’re useful to them.

I guess I’m good for as long as I can fetch beer and smokes.

I will tell you that expediency and usefulness are not the same as love. Sex doesn’t necessarily equate to love either. It’s easy to get caught up in hormones and horniness (been there done that) but when the excitement and lust die down, what do you have? From my own experience I can say that following the hormones and horniness path has led to a lot of guilt, embarrassment and shattered dreams. It’s not worth it. I’m thankful that my past indiscretions didn’t wreak as much havoc as they could have.

Don’t follow in my path. Don’t let a chance at true love go because of fear or because you need to hold on to perceived obligations. It sounds trite, but love will find a way. Unless you’re an eccentric old bat who’s proportioned like a mutant troll.

More Acronym Fun, a Farewell to Fred Phelps, and Spontaneous Combustion

March 26, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Perhaps old Fred got the real point in the end.

In a twist of cosmic irony, Fred Phelps was actually excommunicated from the infamous Westboro Baptist Church that he founded, so maybe there is hope for him after all.

I don’t wish damnation on anyone- even Obama (although I hope that in some way he pays for all the pain he’s inflicted on millions of Americans)- believe that or not. But other people’s salvation or damnation is far beyond my judgment and well outside my sphere. I think Clint Eastwood (in Heartbreak Ridge? – it’s been awhile since I’ve watched any Eastwood flicks) put it as, “Kill ’em all and let God sort them out.” God’s going to sort them out anyway, so I’m not making that my business.

I enjoy the creativity behind the use of acronyms and certain logistical metaphors used in certain industries. Medicine is particularly macabre– even more so than automotive. I can say I probably have :

APD – Acute Prozac Deficiency (depression) at times

HIVI – Husband Is Village Idiot

I freely admit to those.

However, there’s a lot more other goodies on this list:

FUBAR – Fucked up beyond all repair/recognition

FURB – Funny, Unusual, Rectal Blockage (people who use inappropriate objects as butt-plugs)

GOK – God Only Knows

PBOO – Pine Box On Order

SBLEO – (pronounced S-B-Leo) Suicide By Law Enforcement Officer

SBOD – Stupid bitch/bastard on drugs

SHA – Ship His Ass (when patients refuse to be discharged).

SHAD – Syphilitic, Hypochondriac, Alcoholic Degenerate

TTJ -Transfer to Jesus

TTOAST – Take Them Out and Shoot Them

TTR – (US) Tattoo-to-Tooth Ratio (Dirtbag Ratio)T Sign – Tattoo-to-Teeth Sign: survival indicator; those who are tattooed and toothless will survive major injuries

Automotive people are almost always vindictive and snarky by nature, but we usually don’t get into gross. We don’t deal with death (usually, though I have seen some totaled cars in body shop lots that people have died in that had skin and hair and guts and blood everywhere) every day. Another plus is we seldom have to deal with bodily effluvia or offensive odors. I don’t think I could handle body odor and shit and puke on a daily basis.

The times when we do get to see gory, gross or just plain bizarre stuff, are quite memorable. The (new off the showroom floor at the time) ’89 Caprice that flashpointed with only 125 miles on it was pretty cool. This was what I got to see the second day I worked in a dealership. It was a completely charbroiled wanna-be cop car. The owner smelled something funky, got out, and as soon as he shut the driver’s side door, it went down in a blaze of glory.

For those who don’t know what flashpoint is, it’s sort of a combination of a fire and an explosion all at one time. Usually there is an accelerant involved (i.e. gasoline) and the fire is hot and heavy, but it doesn’t last long. Older, carbureted cars like that Caprice were more prone to it, but even then it was rare. The dude obviously got a lucky break. He had a second to get out of the car. I don’t know why I think of flashpoint when I hear of (alleged?) spontaneous human combustion. Cars have lots of places where sparks can occur, as well as plenty of accelerant in the fuel system. Internal combustion itself is simply a series of contained, controlled explosions. (How do you think that crankshaft turns?) I’m surprised that more cars don’t catch on fire and/or explode- but I’ve been trained and conditioned to look for what can go wrong with automotive systems. I’ve witnessed many bizarre automotive failures over the years- but I’ve only personally seen one flashpoint, and then only after the fact.

Just a series of controlled explosions, folks!

I think it would be a lot harder for something that’s 70% water to catch fire, (i.e. a human body) especially without any overwhelming presence of accelerants. Some people argue that the body does produce acetone- which is flammable- but I would argue, not in sufficient enough quantity to sustain any kind of burn.

This guy, though, seemed to have sizzled everything but the loafers.

You could almost still wear the loafers.

The only thing is, was there really a dude in the pile before it ignited (I’m assuming a dude, because no self respecting woman would wear brown dude’s loafers) or was it just a pile of newspapers, a broken wine bottle, and an old pair of loafers to begin with?

No, I Don’t Have Any Green Clothes

March 17, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I don’t own any green clothes. I don’t like the idea of weirdos trying to pinch me, either.

St. Patty’s Day isn’t really high on my radar of secular holidays. I don’t drink beer, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be green.

It’s sort of depressing that someone took the guy who brought Christianity to the heathens in Ireland and turned his festival day into a drinking holiday. I still think green beer and leprechauns would be more suitable if we were celebrating Benny Hill’s birthday, but maybe that’s just me.

I guess it’s a good thing leprechauns are white. Otherwise we wouldn’t be able to make fun of them. Or get creeped out by them. I always looked at leprechauns as sort of creepy mini-trolls.

At least it’s not Hans Strudel.

When did German=Fruity?

The Irish have always been sort of “people who get picked on.” Maybe it’s because a lot of them are Catholic. Maybe it’s because they like to get drunk and fight. But the same descriptives also apply to Italians, and nobody bothers them.

Then there’s the Thrifty Scotsman, which is a stereotype I can understand. My grandmother’s father immigrated (legally, may I add- Dad has his documentation) from Scotland. My great grandfather died long before I was born, but my grandmother was one of the most thrifty people I ever knew- cutting coupons, hitting the sales, stocking up on dozens of three-pound cans of Folger’s when it was cheap, and so forth. That might have been because she was half Scots (her mother was German) but it might have been because she grew up in the Depression, too.

Grandma always had a few extra cans of Folger’s.

I don’t think I’ve had green clothes since I was old enough to buy my own clothes. Almost everything I have is either pink, black or jeans.

Prayers for the Pragmatic, Endless Winter, and Axioms of the Streetwise

March 5, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I have a few new words of wisdom for my adult son (the Precious Only Male Child.) I thought they were so good, I just had to share.

The path to perdition is paved by the prick. So stop thinking with yours and start using the big head up top.

Good places to meet intelligent women: Church. The Library. The “Y.”

Bad places to meet women: Bars that play country music. Any establishment where the center of attraction is a vertical pole, and patrons are encouraged to deposit dollar bills in G-strings. Any establishment that plays The Village People, the clientele is all male, and they’re all wearing leather.

Steve-o knows better than to join the sausage fest, and I don’t see him as the featured dance partner at the Blue Oyster, so he doesn’t really need a warning about the guys in the tight leather pants and stiletto heels. He does need a warning regarding avoiding women of loose morals and open legs as it were. It’s lovely that your girlfriend (or tonight’s bed partner) is willing to show you a good time. It’s not so lovely that she’s probably been providing the same services for every other male under the age of 25- in a three county area.

If this van’s a rockin’, someone’s sharing an STD or two…

I still remember the movie we got to see in health class back in 1982. It was called “VD is Nothing to Clap About.” It was narrated by of all people- Dick Cavett. It included some most unforgettable cartoons of cartoon hippies giving some cartoon VW Transporter suspensions a real workout. It was the summer of love indeed- or at least the film offered the imagination some gratuitous behind-the-Transporter-door cartoon sex. Even though this film was mandatory in health class, it was blow-snot-out-your nose hilarious. I still remember the cautions given about sleeping around and getting the clap, or syphilis, or crabs. I’d really, really like to know if anyone has uploaded a copy of that film. I would love, love, love to have the link to it should anyone have thought to preserve such a meaningful piece of 1960’s ephemera.

Apparently the clap, syphilis and crabs were the only STDs that were known to science in 1968, which is when that most comprehensive educational film was produced. Today’s STDs are a lot more deadly and usually a lot more permanent than just a case of the crabs or even a dose of the clap, but hey, it was 1968- when the air was dirty but sex was (relatively) clean. Today’s dating scene provides a wide and varied STD smorgasbord. Your stripper ho was great for a night, but herpes is forever.

Even Dad had to weigh in on Steve-o’s last skank du jour. I was surprised to get such a pithy insight from Dad, as he is usually very conservative when discussing potentially off-color subject material, but he is becoming a bit more brash in his older age. He speaks the truth though:

You know what a skank and a rooster have in common?

A rooster says “cock-a-doodle-doo.” The common street skank says, “Any cock will do.”

Ewww.

I don’t think this winter will ever end.

I think we finally have started a path toward the Central Ohio season of Snowbooger Grey. At least on my car.

I can’t recall a winter here that seems to linger on so long, or that has been quite as cold.. The snow started in November and hasn’t really gone away for more than a few days or so since. That’s unusual for this area. It’s usually just overcast, moderately cold (but not below freezing) and raining this time of year, until about the end of May.

Al Gore can bite me sideways with the man-made global warming tripe. The weather cycle has turned back to “mostly cold.” In 20 years it will turn back to “mostly hot.” Whoop de doo. We humans are pretty damned arrogant- and just plain silly- if we think a little bit of car exhaust and a few cow farts are going to turn the tundra into a tropical paradise.

Dear Lord, keep Your arm around my shoulder and Your hand over my mouth.

While You’re at it, take away Obama’s phone and pen and put him in a rubber room for the duration.

All joking aside- sometimes that’s all that keeps me from strangling the daylights out of those who richly deserve it.

I know I shouldn’t be such a wisenheimer on Ash Wednesday, when I’m supposed to be contemplating my own mortality. I have thought of a few things that Steve-o might want to share after I commence to take the Dirt Nap at my funeral before he has me taxidermied and turned into a coffee table.

Don’t look at it as if I’m dead. I’ve just been returned to the Master Craftsman for extensive cleaning and repair.

If you present my stiff carcass in an itchy pink nightie and bad makeup for viewing in an open casket so Mom’s friends can file by and exclaim, “She looks soooo gooood!” I will haunt you forever.

Pop Tarts, Mountain Dew and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos do not comprise a balanced diet.

Techno music is appropriate for porn movie sound tracks. If you want to listen to some good music, download the collection on my SD card in my phone to your computer.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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Author: Tonya Lanthron