Ineptitude is Possible, and the Obfuscater in Chief!

 

Ineptitude is Possible!  I love pragmatic slogans.  This one would be a good one for the Obama campaign, although in my opinion, framing Obama as being “inept” would be akin to saying, “Obama might be a socialist,” or, “Hitler sort of disliked Jewish people.”   

“Incompetence and Apathy” would probably be a more accurate assessment of the Obama regime, though in all fairness, he’s been perfectly competent when it comes to obfuscating.*    Obfuscation is Obama’s number two skill, right behind deception, which is closely related.  I’ll give him credit: It’s easier to lie, cheat and otherwise deceive the American public once the smokescreen is in place. 

*obfuscate: (verb) To confuse someone or to obscure the meaning of something. To make so confused or opaque as to be difficult to perceive or understand.

I know that I am very clearly politically biased, so yes, anything I say politically is almost always going to be at least a bit right-leaning.  I do find it a slight bit justifying that Bill Clinton (not exactly a paragon of economic conservatism, but he does tend a bit more to the center than BO and crew) has called Obama out on his economic policies.  The problem is, Obama isn’t going to listen to critique from the left anymore than he gives a rat’s ass about anyone on the right, or anyone who actually has to work for a living.  He’s going for the gay activists’ and (as a natural progression, Hollywood’s)bank roll, and setting up a nice, thick smokescreen for the rest of us at the same time.

In all honesty I don’t consider gay marriage to be a civil rights issue any more than it’s a civil right to do the nasty with your car like that dude on TLC.  Discriminating against someone because of their race is a civil rights issue, but failing to make provisions for those who indulge in unorthodox behavior is not.  Should furries get a special dispensation to dress up like Secret Squirrel at work?  What about their civil right to be whatever woodland creature their heart desires?

I don’t care what people do to get their jollies.  Generally if you’re not hurting someone else, then the government really shouldn’t mess with you, even if you are a nut job.  I would even go so far as to say there would be a lot less drug abuse (and a LOT less of the associated crime) if that crap were all legal and inexpensive to obtain.  The gene pool would necessarily chlorinate itself- the dealers would go out of business quickly as the junkies OD and die off. I find it sad that we have not learned a lesson from Prohibition.   No demand, no supply.  Make it easy to get and the illegal suppliers go out of business overnight.  Problem solved.

It sounds cruel to say that, but I can’t think of a better deterrent to drug abuse and the associated crime than to witness what it does to people.   However, I don’t think it’s imperative for society to sanction and encourage irrational and dangerous behavior.  There’s a difference between permitting something to occur and encouraging it.  If two people of the same gender want to live together and share all their business it is possible to do all those things on a legal basis.  What two consenting adults do behind closed doors is their business too- and I am including straight people in this assessment.  Many homosexual practices spread diseases, but straight people can spread diseases and such too.   Admittedly observing strictly monogamous partnerships (regardless of orientation) would be healthier over all for everyone.  However, in practical application, strict monogamy, especially among straight people-  is a lofty goal. 

Be careful what you wish for.  It might really suck.

The benefit to society in the whole straight, monogamous marriage paradigm is that generally it’s better for children to be raised by two parents (one male, one female) and human reproduction still requires one male and one female to produce children in the first place.  I understand that there are geezers out there who are done with the whole breeding thing (me included) and there are people who for whatever reason do not wish to procreate.   Sometimes people of the same gender are attracted to each other even though that whole concept holds no charm for me.   Whatever floats your boat.   That’s fine.  Live together.  Do the horizontal mambo.  Share each other’s checking accounts and all that.  I don’t care.   But there is no benefit to the greater society in sanctioning or encouraging such relationships, and it is well to remember history.  Much of the reason for the downfall of both the Greek and Roman empires was the acceptance and popularity of homosexuality- the populations could not sustain themselves. 

The bottom line is as far as individuals go, do what you’re going to do.  I have no problem with “special friends” having a legal agreement that protects the other partner should the other die, or to have power-of-attorney for each other, or shared properties, etc. as if they were relatives, but those provisions (at least in Ohio) are already in the law.  Leave it be.  And truth be told, if every fairy princess on the planet decided to marry his boyfriend- or his Ford Escort for that matter- it truly wouldn’t matter all that much to me if I could afford my scripts.

Now that Obama has become the belle of the drag queen ball, it becomes easier for the media and people in general to forget about his dismal economic policies, Obamacare, the millions of people who are already paying a LOT more for their healthcare because of Obamacare, and his stonewalling on domestic energy development.  These are the real issues.  There will always be gay people.  There will always be gay people who want the greater society to celebrate their particular fancy, and who have deep pockets with which to buy liberal politicians.  However, that issue pales in comparison to the energy and economic failures that BO doesn’t want to talk about.  Those are the issues that should be front and center, not whether or not gay people are going to live together and have relationships, which they are going to do whether the state sanctions them or not.

In all seriousness, I sincerely hope people think before they vote.  Obama is not qualified to run the toilet paper roll in a porto-john, let alone the Oval Office, and the past 3 1/2 years have proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt.  I am not an incredibly huge fan of Mitt Romney, but I’d take Bill Clinton again over Obama.  At least Bill Clinton was smart enough not to entirely rely upon the lunatic fringe.

Killing Me With Country Music, Bad Tats, and Civility is Dead

I am not a fan of country music.  Ironically, many country musicians espouse political and social views that are similar to mine, and for that reason alone I’d like to show their art a little love, but there’s something about that music genre in general that makes me want to projectile vomit, cry, and drive my car off a bridge all at the same time.

I don’t know if my loathing is born out of being trained in classical voice- it might be hard for some to imagine, but I enjoy opera and have actually performed a few arias in my time.  The most important part of classical training isn’t so much about style as it is control- learn the control and you can adapt to any style.    I also enjoy rock and heavy metal (especially the more orchestral types of rock/metal) and have been known to (long time ago) cover everything from Rush to the Scorpions to Stevie Nicks and even some Led Zeppelin.  I have a broad vocal range so I can get away with pretty much any style I want.  I actually enjoy most music (except for rap, which is simply loud drug-induced glorification of cop-killing and sister-raping) including some country-related genres such as bluegrass (as long as they don’t sing) and blues and jazz.  I even find David Allan Coe hilarious, mostly because his music is gloriously politically incorrect and he will lampoon anything, but start in with the “achy, breaky heart” stuff and you lost me.

Unfortunately, Jerry adores the country music that I can tolerate the least- the really old time twangy, sad sap songs about dead dogs and Momma gettin’ drunk and Daddy beatin’ all the youngin’s.   He likes to crank it up when he’s wasted, which is usually at night when I’m at least attempting to get some sleep.   This is not the country music that is a bit less odious, the kind you can almost mistake for pop.  It’s the kind of music that if you play it backward you get your truck back, your old lady back, the train un-runs over Momma, and you end up with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s in the bargain.  I can’t stand it.  I’ve tried to make myself tolerate it, but the love’s just not there.  Maybe you have to get drunk to appreciate it.  The only way I can appreciate it is when it’s turned off.

Something about that “Achy, Breaky Heart” song makes my IQ drop just thinking about it.

When I worked in some of the rural dealerships I had a few techies who insisted on blaring that awful stuff out in the shop.  I responded by cutting the breaker to their power strips so their jamboxes wouldn’t work.   Once they figured that out, I came in early and re-tuned all their jamboxes to the classical station.  Classical music in general (but especially Mozart) is good for the analytical mind, and some of those six-fingered yokels could use a little help with that.  At least after my re-tuning the oat opera lovers decided that they would humor the old bitty and listen to the Oak Ridge Boys,  Hank Williams, and Boxcar Willie with headphones.

It seems that the only people group out there that is acceptable to lampoon these days is the Redneck Nation.  Perhaps my distaste of Waylon Jennings, et al is a way of distancing myself from my redneck heritage.  I have to admit though, that I’m not that far removed from the trailer park.  Poor white folks are poor white folks after all.  I may not care much for NASCAR, (stock car racing has to be the most inane “sport” ever) either, but at the end of the day, yeah, I still believe in God, the US Constitution, guns, and guts.  The alternatives to those aren’t panning out so well.

I also refuse to get tattooed.  I’ve played around with the thought of having eyeliner tattooed on but I don’t like the thought of someone getting that close to my eyeballs with a needle.  I have a lot of friends with tats, and as far as I’m concerned, to tat or not to tat is a personal decision.  I still envision those horrid monstrosities- really bad sailor’s tattoos- on my Grandpa’s forearms.  I can’t imagine they looked good when he had them done when he was 18 and in the Navy- in 1943.  In 2006, when he was in the assisted living center, right before he died, they were positively frightening.  I knew there was a reason why he wore long sleeved shirts, carefully buttoned at the wrists, even in high summer.  He was a railroad executive for many years after he had served in the Navy- and didn’t want anyone to know he had those horrid tats.    That would be my luck.  I would end up with something positively embarrassing and hideous, like my best friend in high school who had her boyfriend’s name (Ray) tattooed across her back in huge letters.  When she broke up with him, his name was still there, to remind God and everyone.  I suggested to her that she modify her back and add the letters BESTOS- and see if she can get paid to advertise brake pads.  That got me a punch in the arm.

I find it hard to imagine this dude ever finding gainful employment, unless he can wear a ski mask, or keep the bag on his head all day.

It used to be that people had some manners.  Not anymore.  I can play that game too, and in some ways I do.  The next time Jerry decides to drop a load when I’m brushing my teeth (we only have one bathroom- acck!) and neglects to flush and spray, so my toothpaste ends up tasting like “shit with a hint of mint,” I’m going to leave some dog bombs under the seat in his truck.  And I’ll set all the presets on the truck stereo from “Country Torture 105” to the classical station too, since he doesn’t know how to change them.

Country is to music like Homer Simpson in a muu-muu is to fashion.  Humorous and nauseating at the same time.

Creative Use of Free Speech and Feminine Hygiene Items!

Every time I go up north I get some kind of culture shock, whether it be the chick in the 5X snowman print jammies (with the thong strap hanging out) attempting to single-mouthedly devour an entire Taco Bell, or the dude in the Walmart with a face full of piercings, and arms covered in various white supremacist tats that I wish I had been able to get a picture of but I didn’t have the courage.  I always get to see the cutting edge of redneck culture when I visit my parents, and this weekend did not disappoint. 

Dad did wonder why I wanted a picture of that, until I blew it up and he could read what was written on the Kotex.  Then he had to acknowledge that it was funny, and worth taking a pic.  I am glad that Steve-o never put Sharpie + maxi pad together when he was going through his Puberty Demon visitation.  I am sure he would have left Kotex commentary everywhere.   I know he covered one of his buddy’s cars in them once, but they must not have had a Sharpie handy.

I can think of better pranks, but this one is fairly harmless.

One of my favorite things about digital cameras is just how easy it is to point, click, upload and share.  I know the guys at work have been begging me to get a video camera for the longest time so they can observe Jerry’s antics, but I can’t dig it up in that little emotional stub I have in place of a heart to do it.  Just because it is potential YouTube gold doesn’t mean it’s very nice to film it.  Admittedly, after last night’s oat opera episode I did feel like getting some sweet, sweet revenge, but I plugged in the Skullcandys (they have some really nice noise cancelling headphones) and enjoyed some favorites from the 80s instead.  I don’t know why, but when Jerry gets into his “I wanna crank up bad country music” mode, he goes for the twangiest, most god-awful country station in the area.  Even when I used to get shitfaced (and this was years and years ago)  I can’t think of a time when I was ever shitfaced enough to enjoy Boxcar Willie- or Willie Nelson for that matter. 

Fanny, my behemoth wandering feline, is adjusting much better to her collar, bell and ID tag than I thought she would.  I did get a few days’ worth of stink-eye out of it (and cats are masters of the stink-eye) but once it got through her head that the collar wasn’t coming off she has gone into normal Fanny mode which is, “aw, what the hell, as long as I get food.”  I should also say catnip, because she goes apeshit over that.  Every cat I’ve ever had except Forrest (and he had major Issues) has positively adored the stuff.  Isabel rolls and thrashes in it, as does Fluffy-Butt, but Fanny (who normally is not a fighter) will swat the other two away and actually attempt to box them.  It’s hilarious to watch.

It’s almost sad that I’m reminded of poor Forrest.  He was half-Siamese and had the most beautiful blue eyes.  However, the poor guy also had feline herpes, and had been kicked in the face by his previous owner, so he had a broken jaw that never healed right, and most of his teeth were missing.  Feline herpes is not a social disease in the way we think of social diseases in humans.  It is a disease that can be prevented with a vaccine, but the vaccine has to be given before the cat gets herpes for it to be effective.  The herpes infection is present in many cats that never show symptoms, but for some cats, like Forrest, it weakens their immune systems and predisposes them to wicked eye and respiratory infections.  The first time he got sick he was dehydrated, blowing snot, had to get sub-cu fluids (this is not a fun process) and had to be force fed with a syringe.  Then he had to take the l-lysine supplement for the rest of his life, which did give him several years until he got sick again and he died almost as soon as he got sick the second time.  Poor guy was only 12, which isn’t all that old for a cat, but he had suffered a lot before we got him, and he had a weak constitution.

Oh, well.  Poor Forrest.  And yes, he was named after Forrest Gump, because when we first got him he was terrified of everything and it seemed all he did was run.

Dubious Distinctions, Freud Would Have a Field Day, and It’s Cougar Pool Time Again

I have not set up the Cougar Pool again, but I have everything ready to go- chlorine, shock, a brand new floatie, and a new filter kit.  I do not swim – at least I don’t dare dunk my head- in unchlorinated water.  I learned the lesson long, long ago when I got a wicked as hell ear infection from swimming at one of the reservoirs.   I should be thankful the water in the reservoirs is chlorinated before it ends up coming through my faucet if it’s that filthy.  I might go to a public beach at the reservoir, and I may consider wading, but I sure as hell am not dunking my head.  Never again.  I like the Cougar Pool water to be crystal clear and Ph perfect.  That way if I do want to dunk my head- or if I fall off the floatie- it’s all cool.  I shouldn’t catch any diseases at least.

So as soon as I clean off the back patio and make sure Jerry hasn’t left anything sharp lying around, it will be ready to go. I should know that Central Ohio in May is generally still Monsoon Season, and that the temperature still hasn’t quite stabilized at Stygian Heat yet.  We don’t put in vegetable plants until those two weeks or so between May 15 and Memorial Day for that reason.  It can snow in May.  Jerry will be a busy little camper with planting next week, but this week it’s supposed to rain and temperatures will only be in the 70’s at best.

Highs at 80° and above (somewhat consistently) are required to use the Cougar Pool.  There’s no heater, so if temperatures dip into the 50s at night, that will be one frigid pool the next day even with the greenhouse effect of the sun and the pool cover.

Isabel is 5# of all black feline sweetness- when she’s not being evil, that is.

I have to wonder about some of my dreams lately.  I think that I’m going to have to close the bedroom door so I don’t wake up to Isabel chewing on my hair again.  I don’t know why she does that, but it’s highly annoying.  Generally Clara and/or Lilo, and all the cats are quite welcome on the bed.  Sheena doesn’t attempt to get on the beds because her bad hips do not allow her to jump high enough, which is fine with me, because she lacks the precise motor skills the other dogs have.

Maybe Sheena’s a total klutz because she has no hip sockets, and the ball portions of her femurs just sort of free-float.

Even if it’s not painful- and it probably is- such a condition can’t allow for terribly fluid movement, but Sheena is what Sheena is.  Sheena usually simply flops at the side of the bed and splays out on the floor, occasionally grunting and snoring, but she’s a sound sleeper.  Clara and Lilo both are attentive to every little noise, and sleep very lightly, but when Sheena’s out, she’s out.  The cats usually simply curl up and purr and sleep and don’t give me any trouble.  Usually when the cats get annoying at night, it’s because their food bowl is empty, but I had filled the cats’ food bowl and the water bowl before I went to bed.  So who knows what Isabel’s problem was last night, but I really don’t need to have dreams of assorted men-I-think-are-hot chewing on my hair.

I really don’t think (at least I hope not) that Neal Schon would really want to chew on my hair (ewwwww) and spy on me in the shower.  I really don’t think any man alive would really want to do either of those things, (and one that would want to do either of those things would scare the hell out of me,) but dreams are weird.  When the old man puts a bottle nipple on a Heineken so he can drink beer whilst horizontal, well, that’s scary too.  Fortunately that too was a dream.  Jerry would never dream of drinking anything more highbrow than Bud Light, he doesn’t like beer in the bottle anyway, and if he could remain horizontal whilst drinking beer, he’d never leave the bed.

I was thinking about it this morning and realized I have the most bizarre luck.  It’s not necessarily bad, it’s not necessarily good- but my life seems to be an ode to Murphy’s Law.

1.  If I am “lucky” enough to get the last of a highly sought item, it will either be broken, missing pieces, or entirely not the thing pictured on the box.  I really couldn’t use *and should have checked, shame on me* the “last” pair of  size 7 sandals, on the clearance rack that I really wanted, only to get home and discover that there was one 7 and one 9 in the box.   I may be ill-proportioned, and the instep on my right foot is slightly higher than the left, but both feet are generally happy in a size 7.  9 is way the fark too big even for my higher-instepped right foot.   Bastards.  But, I should have checked.

2. If I remember to bring the DS when I have something boring to do that potentially involves sitting and waiting, I get right in.  If I forget the DS, I will encounter every imaginable delay and will get to spend an eternity either immersed in the abyss of daytime TV or buried in vapid, aged, so-called women’s magazines.   I don’t really get into too many periodicals.  At least the Vet has some good ones- Dog Fancy, Cat Fancy, and various scientific and veterinary journals and such.  But I really can’t take Glamour, People, Good Housekeeping or any of those “parenting” magazines.   That crud makes me want to vomit.   The good gossip rags ended when they stopped printing the Weekly World News.   That was Great-Grandma’s favorite gossip paper, even though she subscribed to them all for the entertainment value, and for the hope that they would lampoon Ted Kennedy yet again.  She really despised Ted Kennedy. WWN is still available online, but you have to have Internet access, and most Dr.s offices and such do not have free wi-fi.  It is nice to know, however, that someone is keeping track of who has the World’s Biggest Butt.  That piece of knowledge could be important.

3. I probably have more medical anomalies than 99% of the population.  While this makes me really popular when I’m in a medical setting, it can make my healthcare become a real circus.  I have had medical students, nursing students, ophthalmology students, phlebotomy students, you name it, get to observe my bizarre body as a instructional exercise.  Usually I don’t mind, because hey, maybe something about my bizarreness might benefit the cause of science, but sometimes it’s a bit off-putting.  The medical student who freaked out at being shown my CT scan before I had sinus surgery was priceless.  He stood there next to my family Dr., wide eyed, simply saying, “OH MY GOD, how does this poor woman stay standing???”  Not very well, I assure you.  It was even more fun when I went to the cardiologist for an echocardiogram several years ago, and of course, it was his day for the medical students.  They glared  at my beating heart on the monitor (which was kind of cool to watch,) as the Dr. (who seemed as excited as a kid in a candy store,) informed them, “This is classic rheumatic heart disease.  You usually don’t get to see this outside of the third world,”  as he pointed out my two damaged heart valves.  Special.  He also said that I probably won’t need them replaced until I’m 75 or so.  If I live that long, that is.  This doctor obviously didn’t know that for all intents and purposes I did grow up in the third world.   Just like Deliverance, only without the benefit of mountains or banjos.

Now, class, don’t put ’em in the bed like this. They might snap their necks, and that would make us look bad.

I Am the Anti-Tan, Screwy Things in the Name of “Beauty,” and the Joy of Being Inciteful

I’m no beauty queen, but this is SCARY.

All this hoo-hah about some very deranged woman who is accused of dragging her five year old into a tanning bed is really disturbing.  Tanning was trendy back in the ’80’s too, and back then the bulbs used in the beds would literally fry the hide off a person.  I don’t think today’s tanning beds use such intense bulbs, but it certainly can’t be healthy to voluntarily expose oneself to all that direct heat and radiation. Oh, and anyone who would drag a five year old into a tanning bed to be toasted like an English muffin should not be allowed to have custody of a kid.  Ever.  Then again, in a perfect world only certain people would be capable of breeding.  The fact that the fittest aren’t always the ones spawning sort of casts some doubts on Darwin’s theory.  The gene pool doesn’t really seem to be chlorinating itself.

Many of the girls I knew in high school went to those tanning beds like religion- and now they look like the California Raisins.  I am certainly no beauty and I am certainly not free of skin damage- most of mine is actually through burns, (especially one bad incident from taking a radiator cap off a bit too soon…) but I have more than enough stretch marks, and a plethora of assorted scars from everything from a horrid case of chicken pox to bug bites, to abrasions, to falling into the coffee table, and even one interesting scar from a claw mark given by a very frightened dog.  However, I don’t tan.  When my super white skin is exposed to the sun, the results are freckles, splotches and burns.   I have never even attempted tanning in a tanning bed in my life, and at 43 I don’t plan on starting it now.  I have seen the leathery, wrinkly visages of the tanned “beauties” of the ’80’s as they look today- and I don’t want to go there.  Ever.

In the summer I can barely leave the house without slathering on the Factor 50, and this is in Ohio, where there isn’t a whole lot of direct sunlight, and it is not exactly a tropical paradise.  Even so, I’ve been known to get sunburn in the car.  It does get hot in the summer here, but it seems hotter than it really is, because the humidity is usually somewhere around 100% most of the time.   I have been told that 88° in Columbus OH in high summer seems hotter than Phoenix AZ at 110°, but never having been to Phoenix, I really don’t know if this is true, at least not from my own experience. 

Throughout history women have done some pretty screwy things in the name of beauty.  Ancient Roman women used lead as face powder.  Chinese women bound their feet so they couldn’t walk.  Even today we color our hair, (I freely fess up to that one) pierce our ears (yeah I did that too) and pierce various other places (not really game for that) and get tattoos (I might consider getting eyeliner tattooed on, but that’s about it.)  I don’t know of any culture that regards excessive body hair on a woman to be attractive, so removing superfluous hair is a Big Deal too.  It’s one of my major battles- to avoid looking like Sasquatch at all costs.  As fast as the hair grows on my body in unauthorized places, remaining acceptably hairless requires constant vigilance.

I know I shouldn’t enjoy controversy as much as I do.  While part of me wants to hide out in the ivory tower, another part of me can be derisive and critical.  There is a fine line dividing healthy, rational debate and presenting the facts, versus rabid activism, and for my own sense of rationality and sanity I have to be careful not to cross it. 

As far as things political go, the easiest way for me to describe where I stand is, “just to the right of Reagan.”  I am more conservative (at least politically) than most, and I have my reasons, but my reasons should never keep me from listening (sometimes the “other side” is right) or from being so focused in my disagreement that I can’t see little bits of good in what I perceive to be an ocean of bad. 

Conservatism doesn’t mean closed-mindedness, (nor does it mean racism or bigotry) but it does mean keeping a bit of a skeptical eye- on both sides.  I may not like someone’s philosophy on certain things- and I am outspoken enough to say so- but at the end of the day my goal is to stay rational- and to remember that while some ideologies may be detrimental or even what I consider to be evil- other people have their reasons for holding them that may not be rooted in evil but because they came from different background and perspective than mine.

It’s going to be a long next few months for me, trying to remain somewhat civil, keeping from alienating dear friends who don’t have the same political outlook I do, and trying not to get caught up on rhetoric, even when I can base it on facts. There are few things that can ignite that tiny little emotional stub I have in place of a heart, but love of country is one of them.  I ran the streets at 11 years old- delighted that even at 11 years old I could volunteer- with campaign information for President Reagan.  So forgive me if I get caught up.  I need to remind myself that in the grand scheme of things, it will be what it will be, and I can only do so much to bring about the world I would like to see.  Besides, beyond a bit of snarky satire here and there, what else am I good for?

Well, I can think of a few things.  I know more about things automotive than anyone other than a technician or an engineer would ever want to know.  I have a broad vocabulary. I can spell and define words such as catamite, hemorrhoidal inflammation, impunity, and gynecomastic.  Even better, I can use all these words and phrases in a sentence:

When Maurice, the gynecomastic catamite, came home from his boyfriend’s party, where he was taken advantage of by the others with impunity, he was suffering from severe hemorrhoidal inflammation.

Even if one doesn’t already know the definitions of these words, it’s possible to figure all but one of them out from the context clues.

Drunken Tilling! Everyone Has a Double, and Here’s to the Mysteries of Life!

Sometimes I am truly amazed and humbled by things I don’t understand. 

Especially how Jerry has managed to live 55 years and still has all of his fingers and toes.  Then again, since he only has ten of each, he may have lost some in the past.  It’s probably in poor taste for me to make a West Virginia joke, but it’s not uncommon in some parts of WV for entire families to have six or seven toes on each foot.  Maybe he had more genetic diversity in his family than in others, because I think he was born with the customary ten toes and ten fingers, which is a good thing.  I went to school with a guy who had six toes on each foot, and he also had a thing for eating boogers, paint and dead bugs.  I don’t think extra digits=extra intelligence, but I’m no geneticist, so there may not be any correlation between having too many toes and whether or not your mamma and your sister are the same woman.  (“Aunt Mom??”)

Anyway, back to more of Jerry’s drunken activities.  Last night’s drunken activity of the evening was tilling.  For those who are extremely urban and have never grown a garden, or observed someone grow a garden, tilling is what you have to do to break up the ground so you can put seeds or plants in it.  Our garden plot is somewhat large, which means manual tilling, with a shovel or hoe (also a digging tool, but not to be confused with “ho”) is not practical.  Tilling a large garden plot requires a roto-tiller, which is a funky thing that is powered by a lawnmower engine, but in the front of it there are vertical, rotating tines that dig up the ground (versus a horizontal blade like a lawnmower.) 

It would be in one’s best interest to be relatively sober when operating such a potentially dangerous machine, but Jerry was at least a 12 pack into it.  So he is traipsing through the mud with the tiller dragging him along.  His shoes ended up so caked with mud that I am surprised the dog shit he stepped in on the way in the house managed to stick to them, but of course, dog shit sticks to anything.  I could have killed him for tracking in dog shit (again) but in his defense I don’t think he could see it and I’d be surprised if he could have smelled it as shitfaced as he was.  I retrieved the shoes, tossed them on the back porch and of course, had to clean up the shit that got tracked all over the floor.

Just a quick passing observation.  Legend has it everyone has a double.  Even Obama.  I couldn’t stop laughing the other night when Jerry and I were watching “The Legend of Awesomest Maximus,” which is about the most corny spoof of Greek mythology I’ve ever seen in my life.  The movie was funny in a puerile, sophomoric way as most National Lampoon humor is- nothing highbrow here-but my uncontrollable, blow-iced-tea-out-my-nose laughter was caused by the uncanny resemblance shown here:

This is King Erotic, the evil king of Greece (from “The Legend of Awesomest Maximus”)

I think they look alike.  Too alike. Creepy.

 

Glow In the Dark Monstrosities, Medical Fun and Total Hemorrhoidal Takeover!

If I see these things in someone’s yard, I’m reporting an alien invasion, because that’s what these bastards look like.

What would you have to be smoking to want these in your yard?  I found this ad while I was trolling through the newspaper coupons.  Some of the shit being hawked in those circulars is even worse than the “As Shown on TV” garbage.  At least the “Easy Feet” thing is useful for old and/or lazy people.  It does something.  It has a purpose, even if only to scrub some geezer’s bunions.  The meerkats only look strange and make your neighbors wonder if you’ve been getting in the cat’s catnip stash again.

Clean feets is happy feets!

I can ‘t think of any good reason to have glow-in-the-dark meerkats in my flowerbed.   Even though the mail order crap mixed in with the coupons was pretty nasty, there were some good coupons this week – especially the $2 off Nice-N-Easy and $2 off Venus razors coupons. Both items are things I will always have need for, and will definitely have need for before the coupons expire.  There were some coupons for Charmin too, which is nice.  Jerry goes through enough toilet paper to deforest the Amazon, but it’s amazing to find a man who uses toilet paper to begin with, so I try not to complain.   I occasionally buy the Charmin Basic if it’s on sale, even though Jerry complains that any TP other than Angel Soft aggravates his ‘roids.

Personally I think the ‘roids are taking over.  One day he’s going to go to the Dr. and I’ll get a call telling me that there’s nothing left but ‘roids.  Today has been one of those days where he has been nothing but a huge whiny pain in the ass and it’s almost funny.  It amazes me just how big a pussy he can be.  It really pisses him off when I’m doing something for me (like getting my scripts…) so I’m not readily available to kiss his ass.  Too damned bad.  It is possible to delay your beer drinking by an hour or two to drive your own happy ass over to your buddy’s so you two can shoot the shit.  Why do I have to take you over there and then sit around like a lump of shit (so you can have a ride without waiting for me to come and get you???) watching the two of you get drunk?

I had to go back to the Dr. today and as I suspected, my numbers were dismal but not quite as horrible as I’d imagined.  So I get my dosage on one of my blood pressure meds increased, my insulin increased, and my statin completely changed.  All of which are going to cost me more (which I knew was coming…) but they did give me some insulin pens which are so helpful when it costs me $215 for a script of 5 pens.    Then it’s back for more labs and fun in August.  Yay.  On the bright side the snots seem to be reasonably contained so hopefully my blood sugar and blood pressure will get back to some semblance of normal, now that I can actually sleep.  I just hope that increasing that one blood pressure med doesn’t put me to sleep in the middle of the day.

No, this is not me sleeping.  1.) I am a brunette, and 2.) I snore.  Loudly.  I wake myself up snoring.

I sort of had a sadistic idea for a video game for Jerry- one where the hemorrhoids invade (imagine the epic song “2112” by Rush -go to 20:30-) and when they (the ‘roid invaders of course) win the game ends with the end of “2112” where Alex Lifeson says in that funky voice:

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“We have assumed control!”

“We have assumed control!”

“We have assumed control!”

Yep, the ‘roids have taken over Uranus.

My sister (not the sadistic oldest one)  is a programmer.  She’s not really a gamer, as her specialty is writing software to control industrial robots, but I’ll still have to ask her if she can build me some kind of fun game like that.

Despair, Venting and Cool 80’s Music

I’m trying really hard not to fall into the trap of despair.  I know I should be seeing the glass as half full rather than half empty and all that, and I’m responsible for my own attitude.  This being said, I’m trying to stay out of that festering pit of gratituous self pity that I can get mired in if I’m not paying attention.  Chronic depression, the mental disorder that keeps on giving.

I’m dreading my excursion to the Dr. on Monday.  I know that even though I’ve gained some ground in the Snot Wars that whole business has thrown both my blood sugar and blood pressure off whack, and neither of those have gone back down to where they should be.  I really, really can’t afford any more meds and tests and such, and it’s frustrating that I try to do the right things and I’m still screwed.  Sometimes I just wish I could just quit taking all the damned pills and shots and going through all the bullshit and just drop dead, but it’s not that easy.  Knowing my bad luck I’d just turn into a drooling vegetable and/or end up a double amputee or something and then be even more screwed, so I’m not going to take that path.

I’m also quite pissed off about the POMC and the financial aid bullshit he’s going through.  Supposedly he is still a “dependent student” even though a.) he works full time, b.) he pays all his own bills, and c.) is supporting his own child on top of everything else.  Where in the hell did they get this noise that he’s still a “dependent”- he doesn’t live with me and I can’t claim him or his expenses for tax purposes- SO why in the flying effing hell do they need my farking tax information if I”M NOT PAYING FOR HIM?????  Hello?  Obama, you jackass, is this what you call “education reform”- counting a student’s parents’  income  as if it were the student’s, even if the student doesn’t live with and/or isn’t financially supported by his parents so that it’s harder for the kid to get financial aid?   Of course this is his last year of school (YAY!) but every single time the kid has applied for financial aid he- and me by  proxy- has gotten nine kinds of shit.  Why do they have to make it so damned difficult?  Why the hell am I involved at all?  He’s a farking adult!!!!  Is he supposed to be a 21 year old titty baby?   He supports himself and provides a good deal of support for his own kid.  If anyone needs/deserves a break it’s someone like him who is 21 and NOT still leeching off his parents.  Does the government really think it’s a good idea for parents to support their adult children ad infinitum?  Is this their answer for lazy, ill-educated thugs who want everything handed to them and for their parents to cover for them until they’re 40?  It really gets on my freaking nerves.

 

I thought cutting him off the teat once he got teeth was the right thing to do, but apparently the government doesn’t think so!

Anyway, now that I’ve got that venting out of the way, maybe I shouldn’t be quite so pissed.  It could always be worse, but I guess the frustration is that I deal with the same shit over and over and over and it keeps coming back. 

On the bright side, I have been trolling about for even more MP3s for my collection to add to my cloud drive and player.  I was never much of a Rod Stewart fan back in the 80’s- I always thought him a bit too on the mellow side- but I’m enjoying some of his stuff now.  I have a lovely eclectic mix of tunes- mostly because I really can’t stand most of the local radio stations, and I can’t really narrow down all the music I like to one particular genre.  I like classical, I like blues and jazz and funk, and of course I get into rock and metal- especially the orchestral, grandiose rock of the 70’s and 80’s.  Maybe it’s because I played music long ago, and I studied classical voice, that I tend to be a bit fussy and perhaps even a bit highbrow at times.   I wonder if I could remember how to play bass after 15+ years of not playing at all.  I still have a voice and I still have the range (a little over 3 1/2 octaves- alto II through soprano I, believe that) but my age, lack of stamina and constant snots pretty much keep me from doing much more with that besides singing in the car and at church.  Yes I sing it loud and sing it proud in church.  Lutherans can get away with that.  I’m kind of curious to see on Sunday- I have to go to my nephew’s Confirmation- if the Methodists can crank it out. 🙂

I’ve got to get in a better state of mind.  Maybe a few rounds of “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” might help.

All the cool musicians looked better in 1981.

I have a good time with that- until I remember that Rod Stewart is older than my Dad.  Then I get kinda sorta creeped out. 

 

 

 

 

Walk Briskly, and Wear Rubber-Soled Shoes (Life Lesson #1)

In most things I’m all about practical application.  Having the dubious distinction of having lived and worked with hot-tempered people (and even having worked for a few people with white powder* problems) I have had to learn the art survival skill of subtlety.  This is not a skill that comes naturally.  By nature I am a very literal person, and unless I have a compelling reason to do otherwise, I say what I think.  Even so, I also have a very strong self-preservation instinct.  I learned this from my Dad, who didn’t have mental or chemical problems- but he did have a hot temper and a damned fine aim.  There are some people you just don’t piss off.  He falls into that category.  I got a refresher course on treading lightly when the psycho coke head from hell tried to throttle me in the service drive because our technician took it upon himself to complete some (free) warranty work on his car.

Of course self-preservation trumps most other instincts most of the time.  When I’m at work I do best if I am told what is expected of me and then I’m left alone to get it done.  I do not require micromanagement, and the more autonomy I have, the more I get done.  

I really don’t need any bullshit from the chemically impaired.  I learned very quickly how to spot when one of my former bosses had spent the night with a hooker, some cheap liquor and a LOT of toot-toot.  I learned to make myself very scarce and only respond when spoken to.  This was a guy who could go from being the greatest guy in the world one minute to the world’s biggest prick in 1.2 seconds.  This was the same guy who spent most days in the titty bar while I did his work and he conveniently took the credit (and the hefty bonus checks) for it.  I avoided him like the plague- but especially when he came in while riding the toot-toot train. 

If this dude confronted me when he was like that I would usually get stuck climbing around scrubbing down the tops of parts bins when I had more productive and profitable things that I should be doing, but this dude was anal like that.  I understand that you want your work area to be reasonably clean and organized, but the reality of any sort of automotive parts warehouse – especially a parts department in a dealership that’s right next to the mechanical shop- is that it is neither a surgical unit nor a kitchen and it isn’t going to be that clean.   I had a severe distaste for this kind of time-wasting for two reasons: one, you can scrub and Clorox it down one day and between the exhaust fumes and the techies (who aren’t exactly Mr. Clean) it’s going to be dirty again the next.  It’s an exercise in futility. 

The other reason I hated his little cleaning rants is his behavior reminded me of Mom when she used to go on the manic cleaning rampages.  Mom is bi-polar and when we were kids, unmedicated.  Although she exhibited a lot of the same bizarre behaviors as a coke head on a bender, Mom did not do coke, thank God.  Dad didn’t have that kind of cash, and Mom was far too näive to go trolling for drugs.  Hindsight being 20/20 I wish someone would have had some Valiums or Xanaxs handy when she got on a roll.   I shudder to imagine a bi-polar person in manic phase AND on coke.  Believe it or not the behavior of a bi-polar person in manic phase and of a coke head in full coke rage is remarkably similar.  I’ve had the bad fortune to be the target of both, and it’s taught me how to make myself scarce.

Blending into the wall can be a handy survival skill.  So can walking briskly and wearing rubber-soled shoes.  I find myself doing that a lot lately.  Do my job, flit about from here to there, as quickly and quietly as someone with dismal gross motor skills can, and go along my merry way.  I have to do a lot less explaining, a lot less chatting, and I get sidetracked a lot less if I can just plow right on through.

Thankfully I’ve not had to work for the cocaine addicted for many years.  It’s a bit stressful going to work not knowing if your boss is going to be:

1. At the titty bar/brothel.  This was the best place for him to be, because I didn’t have to deal with him, and since I had to do his job anyway, it was nice to be left alone to do it.  The only bad part was I felt guilty lying to his wife when she called.  I knew damned good and well he wasn’t “in a meeting,” but it was a lot less messy than telling her the truth.  She found out anyway where he’d been going- when she ended up with a rather nasty social disease. 

2. At work.  This was a crap shoot. When he wasn’t jacked up on coke, he was usually OK.  That was the time to corner him for the few things that he had to authorize, etc. although I pretty much could do everything he did- even though I didn’t get the recognition or the compensation for it.  Even if he was coked up he could be decent -unless he started getting paranoid or something (and that could be anything) pissed him off.  Then he could go from your best buddy to the guy who’s having a screaming tirade about dust bunnies behind the oil filters.

3. Sick.  It was really bad if this dude came to work “sick,” because here was a dude who could turn a hangnail into a Shakespearian tragedy.  And on top of being the world’s biggest coke head, this dude was the world’s biggest hypochondriac.  I swear he asked me to inspect bumps on his scalp and arms (ewwwwwwwww!!!) and creepiness like that.  Yeah, you hired me to inspect your zits and dandruff.  Acck.  I am NOT a doctor.  I am NOT any kind of health professional.  If you are in doubt, stay home, quarantine yourself, or just skip the middle man.  Call 911 and have them take your ass to the ER.  Ironically, he didn’t say anything to me about the symptoms of the social disease that he (and his now ex-wife) had to go get shots and such for.  Go figure.  I hope it fell off.

I have to say I was delighted when I was offered alternative employment far, far away from this dude.  However, the life lesson that the hot-heads, bi-polar, and chemically enhanced people in my life have taught me still stands.  It is better to lurk quietly in the shadows and avoid attention than to be singled out and browbeaten. 

*white powder=cocaine

Examples of What Not to Do, Inner City Wildlife, and The Bright Side of Life

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I am never going to be one of those people who runs around spouting sunshine out of my nether aperture.  It just isn’t going to happen unless someone waves a magic wand and I’m suddenly permanently hairless in all the right places, that I’m about 5’9″ with perfect proportions, that I’m independently wealthy and can do what I want, Reagan is alive and well and back in the White House, and that I’m suddenly free from all of my various and sundry health afflictions. 

I am a perfectionist, but I’m also a realist. I know that nothing in the above list is ever going to happen to me in this lifetime.  I’m cool with that, but not because I like it.  I’m cool with that because I’m thankful that the sources of my discontent are so trivial.  Of course I am troubled by many other broader issues, but most of them are things for which I’ve done what I could and/or have very little power to change. 

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There are things that will not change for the better – current popular music, the rate at which my eyebrows go from finely sculptured to Sasquatch-like uni-brow,  the frequency and duration of Jerry’s whining episodes, etc.- no matter how much I wish they would.  The challenge in life is navigating around the Murphy’s Law outcomes and working within the parameters you get.  I may not have gotten the best box of chocolates, but I didn’t get the worst one either.  More importantly, as the esteemed philosopher Mick Jagger once noted, “You can’t always get what you want/ you can try sometimes/ you just might find/ you get what you need.”  Sometimes I really have to wonder about that, especially when what I get arrives packaged appearing as anything but a gift- but those who have everything handed to them without any blood, sweat or tears often have very little appreciation for what they have.

I guess I was supposed to get the box of chocolates with a lot of icky tasting maple and pecan ones in it- the one with the cellophane partially missing and the corners all bashed in, that’s marked down on clearance once the holiday’s over.  Even though someone else got the primo one with all the good dark chocolate and mint creams in it, I still got more than what I deserved.  Some people just get an empty box, or show up after all the clearance boxes have been sold.

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It’s only human to take a look around and observe (and feel a little jealous toward) the beautiful people. Knowing that the beautiful people aren’t always so lovely- in and out of each other’s beds and/or in and out of rehab and such- is a sort of cold comfort. 

A good friend of mine (who I need to call and have a nice long chat with- yes dammit-) once said that money can’t buy happiness but it does buy the misery you like the best.  I have to wonder how much damage I would end up doing if I had the resources to do exactly what I wanted all the time.  I know I would end up telling a good number of people to f-off and die – and I probably should do that with a few people in my life- but I’d go overboard.  I’d end up alienating everyone who ever had the audacity to piss me off, and that’s just about every human I’ve ever come in contact with.

If I weren’t forced to leave my ivory tower and interact with the unpredictable world I’d never be treated to such spectacles as the Canada goose who likes to hang out in front of the door at work. Right here in the middle of Little Mogadishu!  (Just like Blackhawk Down but with fewer helicopters.)  

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Of course if the coyotes can survive thrive here (the beautiful Central Ohio area is known for its urban coyotes) so can the geese.  From what I see in the article the coyotes are actually eating some of the goose eggs, which most people should consider to be a good thing.  Canada geese are pretty, but they do crap a LOT, and when there are too many of them they can get aggressive too. 

Obstacles and adversity and unavoidable unpleasantries force us to deal with the things we’d rather not.  I don’t enjoy waiting and I don’t enjoy crowds, but I’ve met interesting people and had enlightening conversations I would never have had if I had done everything online or on demand.  I could see myself- if I had virtually limitless wealth and therefore power- becoming like Howard Hughes- isolated and trapped in a hell of my own design.  I think everyone has to be forced into doing certain things they find distasteful in order to really enjoy the important things.  I appreciate being able to watch Ren and Stimpy episodes every once in awhile, but I think I’d get bored with them if that’s all I did 24/7.

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By the grace of God I’ve managed to steer clear of the criminal justice system for the most part.  I say by the grace of God because I know how evil I have the potential to be.  I believe that anyone can become a killer in the heat of passion, or fall for the wrong scheme, or be in the wrong place at the right time. 

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Full body tats are never a good idea- especially when you’re on your way to jail.

I don’t think Cadillac was looking for that kind of endorsement (his neck tat is a Cadillac crest) from a guy who ended up shooting and killing his ex-girlfriend.  I can’t say how he ended up this way but it sort of breaks my heart that someone born in 1988 (I was in college in 1988…) could have already screwed up his life so bad.  I know there’s hope but prison isn’t a nice place, and he’s likely going to be there for awhile.

I am thankful for a number of things, just a sampling are listed here:

I’m thankful…

That I’m not in prison.  That would definitely suck.  Especially because I’m straight and can’t fight.

For my beautiful dogs and cats.  Even though Fanny is really pissed about wearing her collar, bell and tag, she’ll get over it.  I’ll get a pic of that as soon as she will let me get close enough with the camera again.

For remotely understanding friends and family who have no idea what it’s like to live the way I’m wired- but who put up with my eccentricity anyway.

For going on almost three years of freedom from my 18 year long nightmare with pelvic pain. One thing I will stress about that- I don’t want to see any woman suffer through what I did for all those years.  There is help available if you persist and speak up.  (Here’s where I am another example of What Not to Do.)

For indoor plumbing.  For those who have experienced the unique olfactory joy (not to mention the company of the various insect and arachnid life that take up residence in the outdoor shitter) of an outhouse or outdoor latrine, you get where I’m coming from.   Two weeks of traipsing back and forth from the tent to the latrine in the middle of the night with naught but a flashlight and a roll of TP at Girl Scout Camp were more than enough to convince me that I prefer performing my excretory functions inside, on a flush toilet, with the light on.  Camping means (at the very least) “where’s the RV” to me- and in a perfect world, at least a two star hotel.

For not having to own, be seen in, or pay for the gasoline for this:

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