Inevitable Entropy: i.e. The Shithouse Rats Have Assumed Control

May 7, 2013Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

Anywhere but here!

I’m not the sort of person who tries to shove my faith down people’s throats, at least not in an overt manner. My faith does inform my worldview, and it does influence what kind of an example I strive to be, (remembering that some of us are examples of what NOT to do) but I’m not going to be the one handing out Chick Tracts or scaring the holy bejezus out of people with threats of damnation and hellfire. I believe there’s a real hell, but I can’t keep anyone out of it who really wants to go. I can’t bring anyone to heaven either. Jesus said He is the Way, the Truth and the Life. If you want to inquire about heaven, then Jesus is the one you want to get to know, not a crusty old purveyor of automotive parts.

Anyway, I’ve made an observation that is not surprising. I’ve known for years that the gene pool could use some more chlorine, but I think that the shithouse rat crazies have assumed control. Mind you, I am no paragon of mental health, but today’s headlines (even as much as I try to avoid mainstream news) are positively insane.

Chris Christie had LapBand. Is this a surprise?

In my world “news” should be unusual or enlightening information. I’m glad that Governor Christie could afford to have LapBand, despite the fact I’m one of the poor suckers who has to decide which scripts I can afford when. I am sort of reminded of the morbidly obese who ride around in the WalMart motorized scooters. If they would get off their rumps and walk through WalMart, perhaps the scooter would not be necessary. If not for the expensive (and calorie laden, no doubt) diet, perhaps he would not have needed the expensive surgery. But I will be merciful, because I know poor metabolism is a bitch.

As far as being one challenged by weight management, I will say one thing about the correlation between being poor and fat (as opposed to being rich and fat.) When you can’t afford healthy food, you will buy what will fill your belly, even if it is discount mac-n-cheese, or all kinds of corn-laden, sugar-filled, salty snacky food. Fresh produce (especially in places like Ohio) is of poor quality and exorbitant high price in winter. Granted, if you are observant you can get frozen fruits and vegetables- which are almost as good health-wise as fresh, at a reasonable price without preservatives, salt or grease, but you have to look.

This isn’t news. If he loses weight and gets buff, and stays away from Obama, AKA: Beezelbub, that would be news. Maybe. I lost a lot of respect for Governor Christie when he sucked up to Obama after the hurricane. One does not kiss up to evil just because it is expedient, but hell, if I could afford a medical procedure (if if existed) that would make me 6′ tall and 120# I’d be the first one to break out the MasterCard.

Kim and Kanye– How Dare She Wear My Curtains!

I understand that most conceptions are accidental. The illustrious Steve-o wasn’t planned, and neither was his daughter. However, I think she could have done a better job at picking a baby daddy as well as picking a dress that doesn’t make her look like someone wrapped the Titanic in my dining room curtains. Then again, should the DNA verify the unfortunate child’s paternity, Kim will never have to eat cheap boxed mac-n-cheese or have Cream-of Wheat for every meal the first week of the month ever again, as if she ever did anyway.

Now You Can Leave Cleveland!

I would be bat shit crazy too if I had to spend ten years locked away in Cleveland. Ten minutes in Cleveland is too much for me. Just think: one of these women’s captors was a school bus driver for the Cleveland public schools. Think of all the little girls who rode on his bus. Creepy. Granted, Cleveland is the hotbed of far-left nut jobs (think New York, west annex) in Ohio, but I have to wonder how nobody noticed three women (and the six-year old girl) hidden in a house for ten years. In all seriousness, I really feel for these poor women, especially the little girl, who probably has never seen the light of day.

The shrinks are going to be plenty busy with these people, which is really sad.

This guy hasn’t been impeached and removed yet.

The devolution of humanity is on the the fast track and is incrementally gaining speed.

Today is a New Day, the Hardest Things to Do, and More Victorian Post Mortems

May 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

As much as I dreaded what I had to do last night, I have an odd sense of peace about it. Sheena’s not suffering anymore. Even until the end she was herself- conscious, aware, but trapped in a body that couldn’t work right anymore. She lost the use of her back legs Wednesday afternoon. All we could do for her until the vet could come last night was to try to keep her clean and offer her water as she wanted it (she was not interested in food.)

I know all too well the scientific/medical reasons for Sheena’s rapid decline. She’d had mammary growths removed twice. The first time I didn’t send out for pathology, (there is only one veterinary pathology lab in Ohio, at Ohio State, and it’s expensive and time consuming to get results) but the second time I did, and the lab said those were benign, but then the growths came back with a vengeance. More than likely- at least the third go-round, anyway- it was mammary cancer, which can be virulent and spreads quickly in dogs. By the time I had noticed the mammary growths again (round 3) there were growths in her “armpits” or more accurately, under her forelegs, (lymph nodes abide there in dogs, just as they do in humans) and I decided that I would not subject her to more surgery. If anyone can gain anything from this experience it is that spaying dogs early can help prevent mammary cancer. Sheena had several litters of pups before we found her. We had her spayed, but spaying a 5 year old who’s had several litters doesn’t prevent cancer as effectively as spaying before the first heat.

Sheena didn’t have a good luck of the draw. She was deaf. She was without a doubt inbred. She had severe HD to the point of pretty much not having hip sockets at all. Her teeth were a disaster from the cage biting. Her physical coordination was worse than mine. By all accounts, Sheena was “defective merchandise.” But she was my dog, and she had a heart of gold. Part of me wanted to end her suffering, but another part of me finds it hard to let her go.

Clara and Lilo know where she’s buried. The two of them (they are both older than Sheena was) are still in good health, for which I am thankful. Clara and Lilo have always been close, but as soon as they figured out Sheena was dying they have been almost joined at the hip. Lilo has been carrying Sheena’s favorite toys around, and Clara has been rolling in the places that still must smell like her. Dogs grieve, too.

Today is a new day, but saying goodbye to a friend is always one of the hardest things to do. It’s got to be the hardest thing about life with dogs and cats. They just don’t live that long. For me, while it’s painful to say goodbye, it’s even more painful and empty to choose not to share life with dogs and cats. No, I am not looking for another #3- I think I’ll let Clara and Lilo enjoy things with just two dogs. I have four cats, after all.

The problem is, I know those are the famous last words. If I know Jerry, we will be back to three dogs within the month.

While I’m in the realm of the macabre, and still feeling a bit melancholy, I’ve found a few more of everyone’s favorites: Victorian-era post mortem pics. Yeah, I know it’s creepy, but as popular as these things are I can’t be the only one who finds them grotesquely fascinating.

I think this one was a mob hit- got the entire family, which was sort of sick.

This one is more tragic than anything. It’s bad enough these twins were likely stillborn, but for someone to want $756 for the original print?

This one sort of leads me to wonder if this child was OD’d on one of the many patent medicines of the day- that contained opium and alcohol?

I bet it happened a lot more than was ever found out.

From the unnatural position of the legs and arms, I almost thought this was a kid’s doll,

but then in Victorian times nobody would have wasted an expensive photograph on a doll.

Belling the Cat, Parents and Children, and the Virtual Graveyard

May 1, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Jezebel is not happy with me this morning. Not at all. But I did level the playing field between her and Fanny.

Cats generally despise collars, and it takes awhile for them to get used to them. Isabel never would wear a collar. She was too good at removing them, and at some point several years ago I gave up. Isabel’s almost 15 years old. She has no interest in actually going outside anyway, so collaring and belling her is sort of pointless. Miz Izz is quite content to lounge in the window sill, enjoying the climate control as she watches the birds and other little critters of nature. She didn’t get to be an old fossil by being stupid. F.B. is the same way- I’ve never tried collaring F.B., and it probably wouldn’t make much sense because she is even less interested in the great outdoors than Miz Izz. F.B. has got to be the most sanguine cat on earth.

I put a collar, tag and bell on Fanny after her brief, unauthorized forays out in the great wide open. Both times I found her large, frightened carcass under the dump truck on the body shop lot. At least with the bell on, I have a chance of hearing Fanny if she tries to sneak out the door.

Jezebel spent a good portion of the evening trying to run away from the bell. Hopefully by tonight she will realize the bell’s attached, and hopefully she will begin to understand the more you move the more noise it makes. I’m hoping she will chill some, and at least partially forgive me. I’d put a collar on her much earlier to get her used to wearing one, but she is so tiny that I have the collar adjusted almost as small as it will go as it is. I thought about those teeny collars for ferrets or the collars for ankle biter dogs, but cat collars are specifically made so if a cat gets tangled and is dangling from something the collar will release before the cat is asphyxiated.

Jezebel doesn’t really try to get outside, but she does torment Fanny every chance she gets. Fanny- all 17# of her- is a wide target. Fanny’s not only slow, she has a bell on to boot. So Jezebel, being young, lithe, fast and silent, can stalk and ambush poor fat Fanny with impunity. Even though Fanny is about 3-4 times as large as Jezebel, Fanny is a poor fighter and has a hard time defending herself, especially when Jezebel wraps herself around Fanny’s neck and starts in with the rabbit kicks.

So I have to try to make it fair. Even though I know, life is not fair, and some things really suck no matter what you do.

Sheena is not much longer for this world, and in some ways it breaks my heart. I scheduled the mobile vet to come to our house tomorrow (if she’s still with us then) to put her down. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, but she’s gotten to the point where she doesn’t want to eat, and isn’t enjoying being a dog anymore. She’s actively dying at this point, and it’s not right to let her suffer.

In some ways I wish we could have done more for her, but she was so ill-treated and in such poor health when we found her, that there’s only so much you can do. She has had numerous issues with mobility from the beginning with the severe HD, but now the mammary growths have come back with a vengeance, and they are everywhere. She is barely able to stand and walk and it’s getting hard for her to breathe. I’m glad I got through to the mobile vet. I wish he could have made it out today but tomorrow’s the soonest I could get. Although Sheena has never had problems with going the vet, let’s face it, she’s not going to have an easy time getting in the car to begin with, and even worse, it’s not easy to load 75# of dead dog back in the car. I took Heidi to our regular vet when we had to let her go, which I preferred in a way, because we love our vet, but it’s not a pleasant 40 mile road trip back home knowing you have a dead dog in the trunk that you’re going to have to both unload and help bury. It was awful enough with Heidi, and she only weighed about 60#.

I can’t help it, and I know it’s macabre, but there’s something about transporting a dead body (even a dog’s) in the trunk that reminds me of the movie Goodfellas.

I really don’t want to do that again.

We had a mobile vet come out when Kayla was dying. I think it’s the same guy who came out with Kayla. I hope so, because he was very understanding. Kayla was a good 90# when she died. I could not lift her by myself. It might sound cruel, but we laid her out on a large blanket before the vet started in with the chemicals, so we could sort of roll her up as if she were in a hammock- so we could carry her outside and lower her into her grave. I know it sucks, but even in the mechanics of death, someone still has to think about the logistics. We will have to do the same thing with Sheena. I can go on and on about how it sucks that we outlive dogs (and Sheena’s probably only about 7 or 8, which really sucks) but you can’t change reality.

I think most people have a sort of love/hate relationship with their parents to some degree, but the older I get the more I appreciate my parents and their work ethic and old-school values. They did the best they could, especially considering Mom is bi-polar, and no matter how much Dad worked, it never seemed like there was enough money to get by. I could barely afford one child, let alone three, and Steve-o (thank God) had very few illnesses or medical issues. I do think it a bit creepy last Sunday, out of the clear blue sky, Mom starts apologizing to me for my trainwreck of a childhood.

What Mom doesn’t get, is that even had I been born into a family with every possible material advantage, it wouldn’t have changed my overall reality much. I might not have been cursed with an uncontrolled, sadistic older sibling. I might have worn better clothes, and might have had new glasses when I needed them. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten rheumatic fever, or maybe I would have gotten a more extensive formal education, but the fact is that in the 1970s, nobody knew how to deal with people who are wired like me. Hyperlexia only occurs in about 1 in 50,000 children, and 75% of those are male. Nobody knew what to do with my precocious reading, and nobody knew that it went along with constant anxiety, poor motor skills, abysmal social aptitude, and weak health.

High fashion, no. High IQ, well, intellect does have its advantages.

Mom did the best she could with what she was given, and no apology was ever necessary. After all, I’m not a correctional institute inmate, I’ve managed to be gainfully employed, and I’m not a serial killer. I went to school with people who fared much worse in the long run than I did, and they were given many advantages I could only have dreamed of.

Perhaps had I been given every “advantage” I might not have had the fortitude to work for anything or appreciate anything. Perhaps scarcity and adversity are good for the soul, even though neither of these are fun to endure.

The older I get, the more I believe the great theologian/philosopher Mick Jagger has it right:

“You can’t always get what you want

You can’t always get what you want

You can try sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need-“

Moving in Stereo, Noblesse Oblige and the Double Standard

April 24, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

It’s so easy to blow up your problems
It’s so easy to play up your breakdown
It’s so easy to fly through a window
It’s so easy to fool with the sound

It’s so tough to get up
It’s so tough
It’s so tough to live up
It’s so tough on you-

“Moving in Stereo”- The Cars

If I had to guess, I’m not the lone ranger as far as anxiety issues go. In the middle of the shit storm there is nowhere so alone, especially when I’m surrounded by people and I have to maintain a professional, cool façade no matter what. I am one of those people who is never more alone than when I’m in a crowd. Dealing with people is twice as difficult when all I want to do is run and get away from them.

I think that was a good part of the reason why my health went south so quickly about 10 years ago. I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t, and the façade couldn’t hold.

Thankfully I don’t get the panic attacks and what I call extreme anxiety spells terribly often anymore, but here in the past few weeks I have discovered that I am just as vulnerable to them as I ever have been. Part of the solution, or at least a way to cope with anxiety in a healthier manner, seems counterintuitive: I have to admit to my vulnerability. I have to realize when I’m trying to move too fast, do too much, or when I’m shouldering blame that doesn’t belong to me, and I’m not good at it. My idea of boundaries is to be completely open or completely shut down, which I know isn’t healthy. I’m one of those people who always feels as if I owe other people something, even when I don’t.

When I was growing up I had the concept of noblesse oblige drilled into my head. Because I was sickly and my medical costs were outrageous, I was made to feel guilty about that. I was also made to feel as if my medical issues were my fault and that I had no right to complain if I didn’t have clothing that fit right, or if I didn’t have glasses when I needed them. Because my medical issues were expensive, and I was painfully aware of it, I was the one who helped Dad out at his shop, and I was the one who did all the household chores when Mom had her back injury and was bedridden- while my sisters played sports (which I couldn’t do because of my health issues) and had actual social lives (which I didn’t have anyway.)

Because I had certain abilities, my parents and even (some) teachers held me to a higher standard than the rest of the kids. I was expected to do without, to tolerate more, to do more, to be more, to accomplish more, and not just in my areas of strength. I still remember my 9th grade algebra teacher almost throwing a fit at me because I truly struggled to get through that stuff. Higher math did not make a lick of sense to me then, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense to me now. I can get through basic math, and I can understand percentages and ratios, but that’s about it. He accused me of “slacking” in his class (as in why could I get straight As in every other subject but his.) The truth was that I spent a lot more time and effort trying to get a B or C in that class than I did getting straight As in everything else.

I got grounded for any grade lower than a B, regardless of the subject, while it was perfectly fine for either of my sisters to maintain a C average- across the board- without inviting scrutiny. To her credit (even though she was a ruthless and sadistic bitch) my oldest sister, in spite of her average IQ, did manage to be an honor student (didn’t take much then, and takes even less now) and wormed her way into Miami University (one of the most expensive colleges in Ohio.) Eventually she did graduate and get a degree, and a submissive husband from a wealthy family, but Dad pretty much ended up paying for a 7 year long bacchanalia. Few women have ever had the tolerance for alcohol as Butterface. Even when she ended up in jail for DUI (which she got out of, thanks to her future husband’s family’s connections) Dad put up bail money for her so she wouldn’t have to spend the night in jail. He also made sure to point out to me that he would not do the same for me, as according to him, I “know better,” and she doesn’t.

Granted, I was very clandestine with my high school/ college drinking. Since I could only afford to go to a local technical college (all Dad’s money was going toward Butterface’s beer, and anything else she couldn’t get financial aid or her boyfriends to pay for) if I wanted to enjoy a fifth of MD20/20, I’d simply to go to a friend’s house, get blitzed, and crash where I partied. Oh, and I did. Frequently.

I don’t know why so many years later I get bitter about my past. A lot of the things that happened to me weren’t fair, and I was held to a number of double standards, but it could have been a lot worse.

I can’t balance out the inequities of life, but I do need to end the guilt trips. I’m tired of being made to feel guilty for taking up valuable oxygen, and I’m tired of believing that the only time I’m worth anything is when I’m overextended and burned out. I’m also tired of taking the blame for others’ ineptitude, and feeling as if I always have to take up their slack.

I’m only human, and the gifts that I’ve been given have always been balanced with gaping holes. I have some wiring that other people don’t have, but I’m missing a lot of wiring too.

What I gleaned from the double standards imposed on me was that it was perfectly OK for me to give and do to the end of my strength and ability, and not to expect anything in return. To a point that’s OK, but perhaps my recent forays into the wonderful world of anxiety are sending a message. I can only do so much, and beyond that, tough titty.

Things to be Thankful For, Tempus Fugit, Taxidermy and Coffee Tables

April 20, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

It has been a difficult past week for me. I am thankful I don’t live in Boston. I’ve been struggling with anxiety and panic attacks again and I’m sure that if we had random bombings going on in Columbus on top of the events (which were not related and had nothing to do with the Marathon bombing) that got me back in the scared rabbit mode, that would send me bat shit crazy over the edge.

Of course, when the shit hits the fan it comes at one from all directions. I really don’t feel like getting into the particular details, because I’m just now starting to settle back down enough to stop hyperventilating and for the PVCs to let up some. For those who aren’t acquainted with medical lingo, PVC stands for premature ventricular contractions. It means the bottom half of your heart goes off before it should. It’s a sort of catch in my heart rhythm that I usually don’t notice, and is likely a (supposedly harmless) side-effect of rheumatic fever, but it’s aggravated by stress. This week has been nothing but continual stress on a stick.

When the PVCs get going bad, the runaway train feeling and constant catching and pounding keeps me awake and I’ve actually gone to the hospital for it once (won’t do that again) because they were happening so often I’d freak out and couldn’t catch my breath.

One thing I will say about that last hospital trip is that I’ll die first before I call the squad from home again. They kept me overnight- next to a poor old woman with dementia who screamed like a howler monkey all night- and did the whole cardiac workup. This was back in July.

Supposedly the whole PVC thing is perfectly “innocuous,” but this assessment came from the same hospital where I was mistaken for a 95 year old woman with a flaming case of Montezuma’s revenge. I know for being 44 I’ve been rode hard and put away wet, but I don’t think I look 95 just yet. I don’t know if I should trust them or not. Eventually I will end up needing a pacemaker or other correction for the abnormal rhythm, according to the cardiologist who ran all the tests, but not quite yet.

That’s not terribly reassuring. The question is how do you know when the rhythm gets so out of whack that it’s time for the pacemaker? Do you have to fall over or pass out or almost die?

“Yeah, Mildred, just take some Imodium and your screaming shits should be gone in no time.”

“But I’m not Mildred, and I don’t have the shits.”

Hopefully if and when the Big One hits, I will be in close proximity to any other hospital but that one. Unfortunately it’s only a five mile trip down I-270 to that particular hospital from my house. The better hospitals are on the other side of town.

Either that or the Lord will take me quickly so I’ll not have to endure the indignity.

To add insult to injury, a guy I used to work with died on Wednesday. He was an Army vet and a very cool individual. Unfortunately he had been severely ill for several years before he died. Even worse his wife had him in an open casket (I loathe the whole open casket thing to begin with) and he looked really bad. The calling hours were last night. Even though I had a horrible week and just wanted to go home and go to bed, I thought it best to go and to pay respects and offer condolences to his wife- she is a lovely person, and I really felt for her after going through so many years of his illness.

I did offer some words of condolence to his wife, but I had to beat feet quickly. Nobody likes funeral homes, and it really sucks when it’s someone who was cool and died too young from nasty diseases (emphysema and heart disease.) But after being stressed out and freaked all week I couldn’t handle being in a funeral home for more than a few minutes. The PVCs kicked in with a vengeance and I couldn’t catch my breath. That was my cue to get in the car and take off.

You might as well do something funny if you are going to do those horrible open casket displays.

Steve-o will probably have me taxidermied and installed in a glass topped coffee table. He is a sick puppy- but creative!

One thing I will say about untimely death is that it is an ever present reminder : tempus fugit- time flies. Even when it seems to be standing still.

Slowly I’m calming back down, and I am trying to look around and be thankful for the moment, and remember that life is short.

Common Sense: A Requiem (Part 1)

April 17, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

We could use more people like her.

Anyone who knows me or remotely follows anything I write should be very clear on a few things by now. I can be an exquisitely cynical person, to put it lightly. My political views can best be summarized as “slightly to the right of Reagan.” This disclaimer being duly provided, here’s why I believe common sense is not just a rarity in this country, it’s dead and buried.

When I turn on the TV I pretty much avoid the news, even FOX. I’ve found that I can skip the incessant Obama-worship and the vapid ravings on which celebrity has fallen off the wagon or who’s screwing who, or who’s gone back to rehab this week, by watching BBC America on the rare occasion I decide to depress myself by watching TV news. It’s a shame as an American if I want reasonably unbiased, actual news on TV, I have to turn to the Brits.

Ok, so when I’m watching BBC America, I’m usually watching Top Gear.

The reason for my utter disgust with the media is that I could care less about fashion, cooking, this-or-that so-called economist going on about his/her speculation on how the economy is either a.) in the toilet, or b.) the best it’s been in the past thirty years (usually both perspectives are provided within the span of a week) or what nonsense (golf, vacations, private rap concerts, donations to Hamas, etc.) Obama’s squandering the American taxpayers’ money on today.

There are a few tidbits of recent news that especially dismay me, even though I could have predicted the reactions to the events.

chairman-mao-without-chicken

Obama, your ideology is nothing new.

I know Obama is as ideologically opposite to Margaret Thatcher as, let’s say, Chairman Mao would be to Newt Gingrich. However, Great Britain is probably our greatest ally, and Obama has been downright rude to them at every opportunity. I’m not surprised B.O.’s skipping Madame Thatcher’s funeral, and I’m glad he didn’t go. What appalls me is that we have someone occupying the White House who is loathsome enough to insult the memory of one of the greatest British Prime Ministers, and that he seems to want to insult the Brits.

I know Obama is squatting in the White House illegally (gotta love Eric Holder and his defense of voter fraud,) but that begs even more questions such as: Why won’t the state auditors and secretaries-of-state ADMIT to, INVESTIGATE and PROSECUTE the fraud? As in where are you, Dave Yost and Mike DeWine?- because Ohio was probably the most fraud-ridden state in the entire election of 2012. We have an illegitimate squatter sitting in the White House, and apparently nobody who matters gives a damn.

The illustrious “Reverend” Wright gives a damn, but I don’t think that wishing God to “damn America” is an appropriate sentiment.

I am also incredulous that anyone with any brain cells would doubt that the Boston Marathon bombing was anything BUT an act of terrorism. Unfortunately, to imply that, or to even speculate on the possibility, might possibly implicate Obama’s friends, aka: Hamas, or the “peace-loving” Muslim Brotherhood. You know, the same people who burn American flags and have their nice little protests where they wish “death to America.” We wouldn’t want to be politically incorrect and possibly start profiling people. Unless they’re white rednecks who belong to the NRA, that is. Hopefully someone will explain to Joe Biden that even should you manage to override the Second Amendment and take everyone’s guns away, people who want to kill other people will always find a way. Such as homemade bombs.

Political correctness is nothing new. George Orwell predicted the failings of forced collectivism years ago. Some pigs are more equal than others, indeed.

Artificial Intelligence, Planning a Solitary Get-Away, and Cat Logic

April 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron 5 Comments

Let’s face it. Most American women over the age of 35 use some form of hair color. I started going grey in my mid-20s, so I’ve been using hair dye for a very long time. I like the concept of gainful employment, otherwise I would try a variety of hair colors- electric blue, hot pink, deep purple, etc., but that sort of body décor is frowned upon in the very conservative automotive community. Tats (which I don’t have) are OK as long as they aren’t on your face or hands, and piercings are generally only for women’s earlobes, (I do have pierced ears) but hair color is something that should at least remotely look natural.

Most of my contemporaries go the blonde or blonde highlights route to disguise their grey, but for me there’s a problem with that. Since my skin tone could best be described as a half shade darker than albino, (tanning is out of the question) and I have a very round, moony looking face to begin with, blonde hair does not become me. The platinum blonde that my sister, and many of my contemporaries prefer, would make me look like a giant moon-faced, troll-proportioned mutant. I still have the troll-like mostly torso type body (short arms and legs, etc) but at least I look sort of normal- from the neck up.

For awhile I tried to match my hair’s original mousy brown, but I never really liked mousy brown much either, and the problem with attempting to match mousy brown is you end up with funky looking dark ends. So I took the advice of a hairdresser from a trendy (read: expensive) hair salon: cut it short, and dye it black. It seems to be the least offensive color/style, and dark ends aren’t an issue when they’re already black.

1987 vs. 2007- at least I didn’t do the California raisin thing…like my sister…

The illustrious Steve-o says every time I dye my hair I am “putting on artificial intelligence.” Whatever, dude.

Someplace like this- accessible only by boat would be nice- would be ideal!

Last year I tried to schedule three entire days for myself, in the camper we already have down in Lancaster. That worked for about three hours- until Jerry showed up with his loud, whiny self- and the other two dogs. What was supposed to be three whole days of quiet, reading and rest, with just Clara, became two and a half days of dog-herding, Jerry-whining, NO quiet, and a wicked sinus infection from hell. I ended up leaving early, after I’d begged and pleaded with the Dr’s office to call me in a script in an attempt to assuage the overthrow of my entire upper respiratory tract by the Endless Green Snots. Of course, Jerry wasn’t to blame for the sinus infection, but he did his best to make it even more intolerable. Some “vacation.” I’d been better off, as far as stress, if I’d just stayed at work.

This year I am going to have to employ a different strategy, should I want a real vacation, and find a remote place to stay (but that has electricity, running water and flush toilets) that Jerry can’t find. I’m thinking a little different area in the Hocking Hills, or a bit further south. Maybe my sister will have her summer house in Kentucky habitable this year and I can beg a few days alone down there. The only problem with my sister’s place is that the drive down there is rather lengthy and can be harrowing. There is no Sprint access within at least 15 miles, either, so I’d have no e-mail, internet or even people pestering me on the phone. Then again, those things aren’t technically “problems”- it just means that Jerry would be less motivated to try to find it and follow me, and it would be a forced hiatus from technology and pretty much everything else, which might be exactly what I need.

Fanny is a BIG cat.

Jezebel doesn’t care.

It’s actually funny to see them banter about. How Jezebel rolls Fanny over and smacks her in the chops, I’ll never know, as Fanny is about five of Jezebel, but I’m glad that when all is said and done they eat out of the same food bowl and they have no problem with crashing together on my bed. All four of our cats get along relatively well.

There’s a show on Animal Planet called “My Cat from Hell.” It’s interesting to see some of the solutions Jackson Galaxy offers, but what he suggests usually works. That’s impressive in and of itself. I’ve seen some weird stuff on that show, but I’d chalk most of it up to neurotic/weird/paranoid owners. If you’re deranged, your cat probably will be too.

The Art of the Epic Fail, Double Entendre, and Sophomoric Humor That Makes Me Laugh

April 9, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I would like to see this church’s theological statement. Just wondering. But it is in the UK.

I’ve gone through a bit of a humor drought as of late and it shows. It’s always better when I can laugh at things I see.

Over the weekend Steve-o and I, and Mom, and Sophie went to the zoo. The weather was unusually nice for Ohio in Monsoon season- as in it wasn’t pouring down torrential rain. The thing about public places, and even attractions like the zoo where the admission price should serve to keep some of the riff-raff out, is that it’s a human freak show out there. I thought Kroger’s on the first of the month was bad. The only places I’ve seen worse tats and even worse clothing choices are the Marion Popcorn Festival and/or the Ohio State Fair. I will be taking pics at both of those events this year. It’s almost as fun as taking pics of tacky Christmas decorations.

Is there a reason why you want to verify your gender to others via a forehead tattoo?

I had a camera on me, but didn’t really feel cool snapping off pics of the Behemoth Butches with Extra Long Leg Hair while Mom was pointing and wondering out loud, “Which one’s the guy?,” and Steve-o snorts out even louder, “They’re bull-dykes!” Mom, of course, replies by exclaiming, “That’s disgusting!” Mom and Steve-o’s conversation back and forth on the human freak show they were observing all around them was funny, if not predictable.

One has to remember that Mom is 1. very Catholic, 2. very conservative, and 3. from a very rural locale. She has lived a sheltered life. At least when she was growing up, the nuns wore full-body garb that would have covered up their buzz cuts, hairy legs, trucker’s wallets and such.

Even I remember Sister Mary Refrigerator Perry from CCD- she was about 6’5″ and a good 320# at least.

I didn’t take any pics of strange people at the zoo, (should have, because they would have been good) because I prefer taking pictures in stealth, without other people’s (loud and frequent) commentary to draw attention to what I’m doing. So I have no gratuitous pics of these “girls” with their lovely buzz cuts and their fetching ensembles of XXXL t-shirts, cargo shorts, trucker’s wallets, white socks and Chucks. Trust me-the world is better off.

Bull-dykes or not, I figure, live and let live. Their lifestyle choices- including their rights not to shave their legs, and to consume more slop on a daily basis than a pen full of feeder hogs- are none of my business. But the one chick did have more hair on her legs than Steve-o does on his head, which was a tad bit alarming. She also outweighed him by about 100#, too, so I’m glad she didn’t hear him.

My granddaughter did enjoy the aquatic life in the aquarium though.

It’s almost disturbing when Steve-o and Mom and Sophie are the only normal people I observed the entire afternoon. They were so normal that they were abnormal- no tats, no multicolor hair-dos, no mouth piercings, and a child who was dressed appropriately and actually behaved herself most of the time, which is hard to do when you’re 14 months old.

It’s getting really weird to watch people in public places these days. It’s as if the world has become WalMart, and that couldn’t be a good thing.

This is so sad, but it’s true!!!

Makes me wonder if he was climbing the fence, or if he just had a sadistic older sibling?

When I look at this pic, I thank God I was not born male with the two older sisters I had. I’d probably been nutted so many times by the age of three that I’d been made a castrato, had I been male and left to the mercy of my sisters’ evil meathooks.

I still got the living hell beat out of me, but at least, being a biological female, I come upon a high soprano vocal range honestly.

Selected Splenetic Ravings, The Man-Speedo Paradox, and Anger Management

April 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

splenetic: adj. irritable; peevish; spiteful

I’m not always a quiet, mellow, little ray of sunshine. Sometimes, in spite of myself, I get pissed. The bad thing about me being pissed off is, being wired the way I am, I typically ignore a lot of things that would send other people (especially women) over the edge. I try to live with a bit of an intentionally narrow focus, otherwise the sensory overload would drive me apeshit. So over time I have developed the self preservatory art of selective attention, and I’m good at it. I can sort out and discard a lot of bullshit that way. Usually I’m pretty good at keeping from majoring in the minors, but not here lately.

It seems like the slightest things are really getting on my nerves, and my sensitivity level is almost discernible. I don’t like that. Not at all.

The bad thing is, that when something does manage to get stuck in my craw, and I’m really cheesed, it usually takes a good while for the anger to brew, and even longer for it to dissipate. I’m the queen of the delayed reaction, which I know is unhealthy, and quite illogical to the (largely) innocent recipients of my wrath.

I checked most of the logical reasons for being so peevish and easily annoyed-

1. Aunt Flo- but I’ve not seen her since the hysterectomy, which was in 2009. Can’t say I miss that noise.

2. Yes, I did remember to put the Prozacs in the pill box, and I’ve not missed any pills this week.

3. The weather does suck, but it’s Ohio and that’s normal.

4. Long ago, I got rid of any itchy or binding clothing I had.

5. Jerry, but he’s always a pain in the ass.

6. Sinus mess and its attendant sleep deprivation. Now I might be getting somewhere.

7. People being dumbasses and just plain jerks because they get some kind of power trip from taking out their frustration on low-level pissants like me who generally don’t deserve it, but can’t do anything about it.

Sounds like a combination of #6 and #7, with an extra heavy dose of #5, just to make it even more shitty.

Maybe I should bring my thoughts around to summer, and dudes in swim attire. That might keep me from wanting to throttle the next asshole who tries to unload on me.

I’ve observed something I call the Man-Speedo Paradox. Buff young dudes who would be positive eye candy in a tight little banana hammock/ thong style bathing suit or the briefest of Speedos, end up in swim garb like this:

C’mon, sugar, be brave, you know you’d look hot in a banana hammock!

Unfortunately I don’t get to see too many hot, buff young pups, Bermuda shorts or not. Here’s the visual I usually get treated to at the pool:

Not sexy. Not on any level. At any time. Ever.

I guess that the Man-Speedo Paradox can be summed up as: the surface area of the dude is directly inversely proportional to the surface area of the swim attire. To make it simple: The hot young skinny dude is going to wear Bermuda short type swim trunks that took yards of boxer-short material to manufacture. If the wind blows just right, skinny dude could be flown like a kite.

In contrast, the big, fat whale dude is going to be wearing a banana hammock that contains about a postage stamp size square of Spandex. I’m going to get to see much that should remain unseen forever.

When Steve-o was about 7 or 8 I took him to a public pool. I spotted a very large dude who appeared to be naked, and I was afraid Steve-o would make a scene about it should he catch the visual, (and he would) so I tried to tiptoe away quietly to report Big Bare Bubba to the manager. Just as I turned around to tip-toe to the manager’s office, BBB bent over, and when he was bent over, I could see a very thin strained strip of bright red Spandex. Steve-o apparently saw it too, because at that very moment he exclaimed,”Hey, Mom, why is that fat guy flossing his ass?” My son does not know the gentle charm of subtlety. Ever.

It’s not a crime to be large, but dress accordingly. Nobody wants to see a 300# she-behemoth in a thong either. Steve-o has a rule about women which sort of makes sense. “If your pants are bigger than mine, I’m not getting in them.” He’s not limiting himself to wraith-thin little flowers, either. He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 190 and 200#. Steve-o also wouldn’t be caught dead in a banana hammock or a Speedo. He is clearly a Bermuda short trunk dude, when one can get him in the pool, which means convincing him that nobody can really see his back hair, and he doesn’t have moobs.

Now this calls for the RAZORBA!

I’m not a big fan of hairy anything, except dogs. Dudes should not have back fur any more than women should have moustaches and sideburns. But I can see why Mr. Gorilla-Back would want to stay out of the pool. That’s just nasty. But there is a solution:

Or you could get that spray-on NAIR:

Steve-o, your birthday is coming up.

I see a gift idea right here!

I don’t see how anyone could shave his own back. And if you tried, you might end up getting nicks and cuts in places where it’s pretty inconvenient to bleed.

Ghosts of the Machines, and Horse Meat in the Dog Food

March 26, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

The town where I grew up was doomed. It became a falling behemoth even before I understood that the world around me was crumbling beneath my feet, and a once prosperous town had faded into ignonimy, becoming known more as a haven for welfare slackers and a hotbed of heroin activity than as an industrial powerhouse.

I grew up amidst the towering smoke stacks, the perpetually clanging, moving factories, and with the constant sounds of the trains- the rhythmic clack-clack, the dull roar of the diesel engines, and the mournful braying of the whistles. The trains were the unwitting instruments playing the muted symphony of the night, coming from anywhere, going to nowhere- everywhere and nowhere all at the same time- as if in defiance of the laws of time and space.

When I was very young the air was dirty. On the rare days where there was no wind, a thick stagnant gray haze hung in the air like a pall. There was a pervasive slimy, smoky film that coated windows and adhered to curtains and windowsills should one dare to open the windows. Should the wind blow from the southwest, (which happens often in summer) one would get a foul whiff of the various odors of rendering and not-so-fresh flesh emanating from the Ken-L-Ration dog food factory (believe it or not, a subsidiary of Quaker Oats.)

This was an imposing, windowless facility where horses were once slaughtered, transformed into a pasty, meaty muck, (hooves, ears, and shall we say, all the “not fit for human consumption” bits included) and packed into tin cans with bright, colorful labels that reassured dog owners that this horse paste was 100% Balanced Nutrition for Your Dog!

Eh, so it’s canned dog food.

At least they were straight about what was in it. Unlike the UK lasagna.

You don’t want to know what a “by-product” is. Suffice to say that a “meat by-product” in the 1950s could be anything from roadkill, to dead livestock, to lips and assholes.

Then there was the Marion Power Shovel, whose last great hurrah was building the crawler that moved the space shuttle. In its heyday the Power Shovel complex cut a five-mile long stretch along the west end of town. Now most of the buildings have been demolished. A few have been repurposed as either warehouses or trucking depots. The skeletons of the massive outdoor cranes that once moved parts of power shovels and other large machines down the assembly line still stand as silent witnesses to a time when the survival of the free world hinged upon the industrial might of America. Now the existence of either the “free world” or the “might of America” is decaying and becoming more and more a distant memory, just like those abandoned factories.

By 1980, the industrial machine that had functioned so mightily- for a hundred years- collapsed upon itself.

I can name a plethora of reasons why half the population was gone in four years, with three-quarters of the factories either having gone out of business entirely, relocating to the southern right-to-work states, or relocating to foreign countries. I can say the fall was brought on by union greed, or excessive taxation and regulation, or the changes in the world economy, or the cost of energy, but to be honest it wasn’t any one factor that led to the fall, but the perfect storm that brewed when all of the above converged.

Now my home town is little more than a crumbling, dead monument to the industrial revolution, long since passed by, and the only constant is the sound of the trains, still everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

That, and it was once the home of President Harding. Harding is much maligned among many historians. He was a tomcat, he had shady friends, and for a time he was a card carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan. But, to his credit, he did keep the budget balanced, and he was well-liked during his term of office. He was so well-liked right after he died that school kids saved up their pennies and dimes and people raised money to build him a memorial that is only slightly less opulent than the Washington, Lincoln and Jefferson monuments.

The Harding Memorial is rather expansive, and very cool to visit- if you can find it. It’s on Ohio 423, on the south side of town, on the east side of the road.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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Author: Tonya Lanthron