Author: Tonya Lanthron

Tonya Lanthron https://elysianhunter.wordpress.com Middle aged, conservative, about as exciting as finally finding the match to the pink sock behind the dryer

Welcome to the Private Cougar Pool, Living With Other Humans, and Related Aggravation

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Of course my private cougar pool won’t be this nice, (like I can afford that) but the key word is private, as in capacity: one old cougar, namely me. 

I had contemplated actually either getting a summer pool membership or joining the “Y” again, but when I saw the newspaper article saying that more and more people are buying pool memberships and staying home rather than going on vacations, I decided the only redneck stay-cation option for me was one of those small backyard pools. It’s 10′ in diameter and 30″ deep- nothing huge, and sadly, no diving board, but it’s enough for one old cougar in a floatie chair.   It would really torque me if I paid big bucks to either join the “Y” or get a pool membership, and then discover the pools to be  continually overrun with loud and rowdy rugrats to the point of it being more aggravating to go to the pool than to stay home.   The redneck backyard pool was cheaper than a pool membership,  there will be no screaming kids, and the most delicious part- it’s private.

I am a bit concerned about Jerry.  I’m always concerned about him because of his fragile emotional state, his taste for Natty Lites, and his remarkable ability to screw things up.  I’m almost confident it will piss him off to have a pool on the patio- because it’s not specifically for him.  There’s no fish in it, and it’s too small to fit a boat in it.  Jerry’s interests in water activities end with fishing and boating, so I doubt he will show much interest other than to complain about it.   I don’t mind if he wants to use it, (I don’t see it happening,)  but I do worry about two things if he does.  One, I don’t want him earning his Darwin Award by getting shitfaced and drowning in a 2 ft. pool, (imagine that featured on 1,000 Ways to Die,) and two, I don’t want him destroying it in one way or another- pissing in it, somehow cutting it, draining it or otherwise mutilating it.  One of the benefits of having a private pool is being able to keep out things you don’t want in it, such as piss, dirt, grass pieces, bugs, and shitfaced drunks.

My major concern of course is that no matter where I put the pool- whether I decide to put it in the yard, or on the patio which is closer to the electrical plug where I will need to plug in the filter and pump- he’s not going to like it.  He will whine about me using the patio even though all that’s on it right now is the grill (can be moved to the other side) and a crappy old table that needs to be thrown away anyway.  The patio is probably the best option because it won’t kill his precious grass or take up any dog-shitting area from the girls.  But knowing Jerry, if I put it on the patio, he will ask why I didn’t put it in the grass, and if I put it in the grass he will ask why I didn’t put it on the patio.  When we first moved in there was an old hot tub on the patio that was about the same size as the pool, so I know it will fit and it should work very well there.  There’s also more shade on the patio, so my super-white carcass won’t have to be exposed to too much sun.  I’ll still need the Factor 50, but I need that just to step outside in high summer anyway.

Sometimes it is better to ask forgiveness than to beg for permission.  This is one of those times.   The pool’s not moving once it’s filled up.  He will be in Lancaster this weekend, so if the pool arrives on time, this should be perfect timing for me to power-clean the patio, and get my redneck getaway underway.

Part of the problem of communal living is that other people do gross things that they don’t think are gross, but that in reality, are positively disgusting.  I gave up on bar soap many years ago for this reason, (few things are nastier than bathing with other people’s stray body hair) and that is a major advantage of body wash and/or liquid hand soap.  No one else has been fingering the body wash or the liquid hand soap, and there are no curlies in it.  Jerry can leave as many curlies as he wants hopelessly embedded in the surface of the soap bar, because it’s his soap.  I’m not using it, so it’s OK!

Maybe the thing with stray human hair bothers me because I am not a big fan of excessive body hair to begin with, and there’s just something gross about the thought of washing with someone else’s pubes.  It’s just counterintuitive.  I’ve washed, but with something that used to be attached to someone’s balls. Why bother washing if you’re just washing in used ball hair?    Then again, I could be becoming my mother and getting her OCD, but I doubt it, because OCDers can not stand to be around dogs because of the risk of getting dog hair on them.   I think Mom went nuts with the lint-grabber for an hour after spending less than five minutes with Sheena.  Granted, Sheena’s white hair against a background of black pants is not a flattering look.  Even so, dog hair doesn’t really phase me that much.  Dogs come with hair, and that’s just part of the reality.   It’s wicked to get dog hair out of the car, off my clothes and worst of all off the floor- my adventures with poorly sucking vacuum cleaners are both legendary and frequent, but compared with the aggravation and mess of living with fellow humans, dog hair is a really minor issue. 

Speaking of vacuum cleaners, Jerry thought he got a really good one when he got an ancient, but barely used, Hoover upright at an estate sale.  It works great- when it works- but the last time I tried to vacuum with it I ended up breaking two belts and pissing myself off enough to go back to using the other one which by some miracle has lasted two and a half years.  I have to constantly pull it apart and unclog it, but I think that’s going to happen regardless of what kind of vacuum cleaner I try. 

The vacuum cleaner is the only thing I can think of that sucks when it doesn’t suck.

I can also see myself if I live to be old- surrounded by dogs and cats.  Aunt Frances didn’t care much for people either, (except for maybe Jimmy Swaggart,) but she had thirty-odd cats in and out of her house at any given time.  I don’t think she liked dogs either, so for her it was just cats until she broke her hip and ended up in the nursing home.  That was actually sad, because then all she had to look forward to was Jimmy Swaggart. 

I think I’d much rather have had the cats.

The Power of Prayer, “No” IS an Answer, and the Freedom to Not Be In Control

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I am a control freak.  I freely admit it.  While I may not completely agree that Asperger’s syndrome should be in the same category as autism, and I’ve never really thought of myself as being “autistic lite,”  (I do function fairly well out in the neurotypical world) but I can identify with the Rain Man really well on the whole routine and habit thing.  Although I don’t necessarily insist on buying my underwear at K-Mart, (I don’t live anywhere close to a K-Mart, going in to the Wal Mart near me is more terrifying than being the last one left standing in an ’80’s slasher flick, so I generally go to Target for such things) I have a certain brand and style that I pretty much buy and wear exclusively.  I have certain things that I like and certain order I like to maintain in my world.  I only like to change my routine when it’s my idea. 

One of the really wonderful things about the Serenity Prayer is that it’s a big reminder on Who is really in control, and thanks be to God, it is NOT me.   That is a liberating statement.  The fate of the free world does not hinge upon whether or not things go my way or whether or not I screw things up or even if I forget to do things.  It really has absolutely nothing to do with me, so I am free to play word games on the DS and to turn up the volume on the TV when Jerry starts in on his drunk and stupid diatribes in the middle of the night.

As a child growing up with a Very Strict old-school Catholic mother (someday I will have to expound on old-school Catholic motherhood for those who never had the distinct privilege of enduring purgatory here on Earth) there were Acceptable and Non-Acceptable prayers. 

Acceptable prayers were: The Our Father (without the “and thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever” line that the “heathen Protestants” add on,) and the Hail Mary.  You could never go wrong, if you were asked to pray, if you said either the Catholic version of the Our Father, or the Hail Mary. 

Unless of course, you were asked to say Grace, which had to be Catholic Grace.  No “Protestant heathen” Grace, such as, “God is great, God is good and we thank Him for our food.”  You dared not even to use the longer Lutheran Grace which is often sung, and starts out with, “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.”  It had to be the “Bless Us Our Lord, for These Thy Gifts” prayer, that’s Catholic Grace, and Mom liked to always add a few lines on the end of  it about her friend Judy’s boils, or about starving kids in Africa, or a thinly veiled nag fest on how Dad needed to stop smoking (he eventually did do that) and straighten up and go to Mass and be converted to Catholicism (don’t see that happening, ever.) 

Acceptable Prayer also included confession.  It was OK to tell God how nasty you were for having fantasies about sending your sadistic older sister to Africa with the starving kids, or how you got the telemarketers to quit calling the house by telling them Mom is not home because she’s been committed to the Asylum for the Insane, and she won’t be back for a year or two. 

Non-Acceptable Prayers included such things as:

“Protestant heathen” prayers, unless you were praying for the “Protestant heathens’ ” conversion.

Praying for stuff for yourself such as money, a pony, a remotely human looking boyfriend, a dirt bike, clean socks, or new clothing that actually fits, of your own choosing.  You weren’t supposed to waste God’s time with your selfish demands when there were far more pressing problems in the world such as Judy with her boils, Dad puffing away on cigarettes whilst being a “Protestant heathen,”  and  of course, there’s starving kids in Africa.

Praying for retribution- even if your sisters really do deserve to either be sent to Africa or to be abducted by space aliens, and even if the boys who put the used condom in your book bag really should wake up with a wicked case of jock itch for their trouble.

I prayed for a lot of crazy things when I was a child, and if I were God (in retrospect) I would have had to say no also.  It’s probably a good thing that my sisters didn’t end up in Africa.  They’d have gotten wicked sunburn.  Nobody in their right mind would have given me a Porsche 911 when I was 16 either.   Nobody in their right mind would give me a Porsche 911 now that I’m 42.  The distressed Subaru DL with its vicious oil leak, and four different sizes and tread patterns of tires, that I did end up with when I was 16, was oddly sufficient.  But “no” is an answer.  I prayed to be tall.  I’m 5’4′, the perfect height for “petite” pants to be high waters and for “regular” pants to drag the ground.   God has a sense of humor.  I prayed to be physically attractive, or at least not to have “the face that stopped a thousand trucks.”  I have the proportions of a mutant troll, and I have a face and hair combo that would scare the bejesus out of small children and dogs if not for hair color and strategically placed makeup.  Again, God has a sense of humor. 

If nothing else, my purpose in being kept vertical and drawing breath is to keep the Clairol and Maybelline folks in business, as well as ensuring that someone will always be out there to buy capri pants, whether or not they are technically in style.

I don’t want to run the universe.  I’m happy enough to have my own TV remote.  At this point in my life all I ask is for the grace to take what I’ve been given and roll with it- to be rich enough that I am not forced to steal, and to have enough to share with others.  No, I will never be beautiful, or even free from excessive body hair without continual vigilance.  No, I will never have a doting spouse, or piles of money, or anything even close to what the world calls success.  So what.  I belong to God, and He has good plans for me- and they will probably even be funny.

If God said, “No,” then apparently I didn’t really need what I asked for.  God knows what I need, but a lot of the time I don’t have the good sense to see it unless He shows me.  A lot of times He has something a lot better for me than the thing I asked for that He said “No” to, but I would never gotten to that point without getting that “No” answer first. 

The importance of prayer is not so much in praying for the “right” things but in the whole process of seeking, knocking and asking (see Matthew 7:7-8.)  It’s OK to ask God for what in retrospect may be very silly things.  God always has the perogative to say “no.” 

I have more than a few friends and acquaintances who claim to be atheists, and they are free to believe there is no God. I can’t argue for the existence of God only to quote the words of a wise Lutheran Pastor- “If you are saved, it is to the glory of God alone, but if you are damned, the fault lies upon you alone.”   

But I fail to see a logical answer for life, for order, for the existence of the universe itself,  in random chance.  I fail to see any kind of omnipotence in mortal men.  Everyone who has attempted to “rule the world forever” has fallen in a blaze of failed glory.  Even those who have attempted to usurp power that isn’t rightfully theirs on a smaller scale have ultimately failed. 

I make a lot of jokes regarding the current President and what I consider to be his dangerous, evil and failed policies, but it really isn’t funny.  I know that Christians are called to pray for the leaders of their government- even when praying seems like a silly thing to do because the person or situation you’re praying about seems utterly pointless.  But sometimes God answers “Yes” to impossible things, because He is in control and I am not.

So I’ll keep on praying that Obama gets impeached- or at the very least that the damage he does do will be limited and fixable, and that his heart will be changed from evil to good.  God may say “No” to my prayers for very good reasons that I can’t see, but He still wants me to pray.  Even if it’s silly.  Even if it’s trivial. After all, what do we talk to our friends about?  Do we address our friends with rote quotes using archaic words like “thee” and “thine?” Do we shield our friends from the rather unsavory parts of our lives, and try to put up a happy front when in reality we are pissed off and want to take someone’s head off?

Prayer is just conversation.  Sometimes it’s silly, sometimes it’s serious, sometimes it’s angry, sometimes it is the wordless, airless, deep-void lamentation of grief.  God wants to hear it all- not so much the memorized “thee” and “thine” stuff (though rote prayer can be a good starting point, especially when your mind has lost its words) but He wants all of us-  the heartfelt anguish and questioning of Job, the joy (and repentance) of David, and the humble trust and obedience of Mary. 

Save by the grace of God…

I’m glad He’s in control and not me.

elysianhunter’s “Inferno” (Hell as I See It) and Its Denizens, Swamp Life, and I Need a Hobby

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I believe in a literal hell.  Dante did too, although he was a far better writer than I, and his perspective on hell is distinctively colored by Roman Catholic traditions and the political intrigues of his day.  The French have a saying: “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.”  The literal English translation is, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”  The Cliff’s Notes English translation is a simple acronym: SSDD. (Same Shit, Different Day.) It can be not only good satire to envision the populace of hell from time to time, it can also prove cathartic.  The thought that greater punishment awaits those who offend me might keep me from throttling someone, who knows?

I’m going to start off my virtual tour of hell with Beezelbub himself, even though Ol’ Splitfoot is on a brief hiatus from life in hell, and is currently wreaking nine kinds of havoc here on earth:

As you can see, right now, Lucifer has been loosed upon the earth to deceive the masses and to gather up his minions.   He is acting swiftly, and with a vengeance, because his time is short.  I hope his time in office is very short.  My countdown to January 20, 2013 reads 626 days, 7 hours and 53 minutes as of the minute I am typing this.

Fannyzilla, at the Gates of Hell, says:  “Yoose is Skrewed!  Abandonn Yer Chezebooger! Yoose No Can Has Chezebooger No Mo!”  

The first level of hell belongs to People Who Drive Like Assholes.

You know them.  We have all been behind the idiot who doesn’t realize he is tooling all over creation with only one (barely) working tail light.  That’s bad enough, but if you rear-end the prick, the cop is going to cite you.   I’ve had more than a few ABS checks (believe me, you will know it when you lock up your brakes and engage the ABS system) because some people are too stupid to occasionally check their bulbs.  Included in this category also is the idiot who insists in staying in your blind spot and not letting you over, the rapper whose car vibrates his car, your car and the pavement at every stop light while he’s treating everyone in half the county to a hideous diatribe about cop killing and sister-rape, and the bimbo who can’t talk on the phone and operate her turn signal at the same time.

The first level people will get to spend eternity forced to sit in a Dr.s’ office waiting room whilst being bombarded with whatever swill is on daytime network TV,i.e., Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer, Judge du Jour, and you will be surrounded by sickies who are snotting and sneezing all over you.  The worst part is, just like in Dr.s’ offices here on earth, you will wait and wait and wait and you will never be called in.

Level Two is reserved for people who fail to control their heathen rugrats in Target, Wal Mart, Kroger’s or any other public emporium where everyone must go at some point to buy survival items (such as food, hair color and toilet paper) that can’t generally be purchased online.

The punishment will fit the crime.  Level Two residents will be condemned to walk the aisles of Target for eternity, surrounded by Queen Banchee (the memorable five year old who once stood in the end of the shopping cart screaming her lungs out all over Target while her Mom just kept plodding along in an apparent Valium-induced catatonic haze) and her minions as they scream, writhe on the floor, run all over the store, throw pointy things, and generally make you forget why you went to Target in the first place.  You are doomed to wander the Target store, with these wretched urchins as your constant companions, and you never will remember that you went to Target in the first place because you were out of toilet paper.

Level Three is for corrupt politicians and bold face liars, such as those who gravitate toward pandering careers in media.

I won’t just go ahead and just say “Democrats” because there might be one or two good ones out there, and there may be a GOP’er or two that lands on the shady side.   I mean corrupt politicians on the scale of a Bill Clinton- a guy who seriously questions things like the meaning of the word “is,” and who answers to a moral dilemma by stating that oral sex isn’t really sex.   I also mean media personalities who can flat out lie to the American people and spin the truth a 180- with a straight face.   Level Three residents will be doomed to an eternity of living in a giant cat box.  Imagine if you were about the same size as a Barbie doll and you were forced to stay in the cat box forever, even when the cat, who is three times your size, drops in to drop a deuce.  On your head.  And the cat “offerings” are also your dinner.   That would be Level Three.  In life you fed people shit and expected them to eat it and like it.  Now it’s your turn.  Bon Appetit!

The Fourth Level (and this is the final level in my version of hell, because you can’t get much worse than living in a cat box and eating cat shit for eternity) is reserved for the most vile of them all.  Child molesters, rapists and murderers end up here.

Fourth Level scumbags will receive kerosene enemas 24-7, with eternally burning kerosene.  While the enemas are taking place, all will be forced to listen to the song “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” by Culture Club, and watch the accompanying video. All Boy George, all the time.

Yes, for the record, I would like to hurt him.  I’d kick him in the crotch, but I doubt if there’s anything there.

Life here in the Central Ohio swamp would be a bit nicer if we actually did see the sun once in awhile (this pic was taken last year) but the torrential rains (yes, I know May is still Monsoon season) this year are a bit much.  Poor Sheena had to drop a deuce in a driving downpour this morning.  They have the “Potty Patch” for ankle biters so they can do the deed in the house, but that’s not practical for bigger dogs who put off gallons of liquid waste and solid wastes are measured in “shovelfuls.”  For reference: a dog will eliminate ten percent of his/her body weight per day.  A 50# dog will leave 5# of waste per day.  Given that my dogs are 55#, 65# and 65#, that’s 18 1/2# of dog waste generated by my girls every day.  They are not going to use the inside of the house as their toilet.  Short of them actually using the toilet and flushing, I can’t think of any containment device that can deal with that volume of toxic waste.

Big dogs need a lean-to relief station- outside, sort of like the beer tent at a street festival, only the dogs would be more discreet in relieving themselves.  This way they’re still outside but they don’t have to stand and squat in a downpour.  I have to contemplate this one.  Everyone needs a hobby.  Keeping my dogs dry while they pinch a loaf would be a very good thing.

The Squattin’ Station.  For big dogs, so they can drop their loads outside and still stay dry.  The only thing is that in Central Ohio you would need to be sure to anchor it securely otherwise the wind will pick it up and drop it off in the next county.

Conspiracy Theories, Dead Terrorists, and Men Who Wear Pants Pulled Up to the Waist

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I hope Osama is dead.  I don’t care who killed him, (though I must admit, as far as methods go, you can’t beat assassination by Navy SEALs, if that’s what really happened,)  or even if he choked to death on a hot dog (preferably a pork hot dog, if the true mode of death was asphyxiation by wiener.)  If he is indeed, dead, the world has been rid of someone almost as twisted and evil as Hitler.  Most people, excepting radical Muslims, regardless of their political preferences, are probably glad to hear this dude is taking the Dirt Nap- or in his case, Swimming With the Fishes.  I just have a lingering twinge of doubt in the back of my mind regarding: a.) did Obama have anything to do with the death of Osama?, and b.) whether or not Osama is really, truly dead. 

The timing of the Osama killing couldn’t be better for Obama.  It’s taken the attention away from the whole birth certificate fiasco (don’t know what to believe on that one either, but I seriously doubt Obama was born anywhere near Hawaii – or any other US state,) and from gasoline prices killing the economy- again. 

I smell price fixing, collusion, and just plain boldface lies- and at the center of it?  Obama.

Osama may have already been dead for years- or he may have dropped dead of some natural cause, and Obama’s been saving up the Osama Assassination Event to build up his street cred at a particularly strategic hour.  I can’t think of a better strategic hour than right now.  With the 2012 election coming up and his poll numbers in the crapper, he needs something to get the American people’s minds off of the very real possibility that not only do we have a sitting President who is ineligible to hold the office – and is crazy enough to run again,  he could also use something to distract Joe Sixpack from the fact that it’s going to cost him half the national debt to fill up his F-150.  The economy is going straight down the toilet while Obama and his pet contributors are on the take, and it appears that’s exactly how he planned it.  What better than a dead terrorist as a distraction- better yet, the Grand Pappy terrorist of them all?  It just smells very fishy- and way too expedient- to me.

The other thing I don’t get is why do we as Americans give a rat’s ass if Osama gets a proper Muslim burial?  Do terrorists assure that all the Christians they kill get appropriate Christian burial rites?  Do they have priests on the ready to give last rites to Catholics who die at terrorists’ hands?  And what about Jews?  Jews have their burial rules too, and I bet terrorists really don’t observe those either. I don’t think it was the US Navy’s responsibility to do anything other than make sure he’s dead and put the body put somewhere where it wouldn’t stink and draw flies. 

Burial at sea, while hygienic (granted-it won’t stink and draw flies six fathoms beneath the sea,) and a perfect way to maintain an unmarked grave, poses too many credibility questions.  How do we know they didn’t wrap up a couple of bags of cow manure in a white sheet and toss them over the edge and just say it was Osama?  I think they should have put him in the freezer and sent his carcass to a taxidermist so he could be mounted and displayed, so people could see for themselves that he’s really dead. 

Admittedly, today I’ve gone from my normal baseline pragmatism right into the heart of cynicism, but who can blame me?   I don’t trust Obama any further than I could throw him.  I don’t trust the media, who is in cahoots with him.  I also don’t trust the string-pullers who are price-gouging and profiteering and doing their damnedest to engineer another economic crisis.  All of these events don’t make me want to re-elect Obama.  They make me wish Congress would  have the stones to impeach him now, and run him and his cronies out on a rail. 

Anyway, I shouldn’t get too hung up on things I can’t change.  I have to deal with them, and while I still have the freedom to comment on them as I see them, I’m going to.  

Today I came across a man after my own heart.  I love this guy.  His commentary on the abysmal condition of  “customer service” in retail is a bit cheeky, but mostly true.   I know I’m getting old.  I bemoan the extinction of the Man Who Wears His Pants Pulled Up to the Waist with No Visible Underwear or Butt Crack. 

Pull up your damned pants!  Maybe I’m just old, but there’s no mystique or attraction to be found in some dude’s hairy, sweaty butt crack, or in getting a visual of his boxers or whitey-tighties.  I want to see dudes with their pants at the waist.

Sort of Like a Car Wreck, Funky Hats, and Strange Clothes

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I didn’t intend to watch the Royal Wedding, but since it was on every single channel that Jerry relies upon for news, I got treated to a few bits and pieces.   I found another big difference between the UK and the US also, and I found it a bit disquieting.  I’ve never seen white American women wear the funky hats like I saw on today’s wedding guests.  The last time I saw hats like that, they were on black women dressed up for church.  The only white woman I’ve ever seen wearing big funky hats is the Queen.  She was wearing a nice big yellow one today, which I thought looked nice on her. 

I would love to wear that hat out in public- even though I am as white as what comes out of a Wonder bread factory- but if I showed up for church with that on I would likely get some giggles, and not a few stares. 

I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid to wear the (much tamer) vintage pink satin hat (or any of the other various vintage dress hats) I do have out in public, and it’s a shame.  Hats are fun.  Why should white American women be denied them?  British women wear them.  Black American women wear them.  Why not us?

Since when did I give a rat’s ass about others’ opinions on my personal choices in millinery?  Or anything else for that matter?

I should wear the pink satin hat to church and see if anyone says anything about it.

The whole royal wedding business is sort of like a car wreck, as Jerry found out this morning.  He kept watching it in spite of himself, and he’s a dude. (at least the last time I checked…) You really don’t want to watch it, because you don’t know anyone involved in it, and the whole pomp and circumstance thing seems kind of silly to most Americans, but there’s something painfully compelling about it,  just like when there’s a car wreck and everyone has to stop and gawk at it.  You know you shouldn’t, but you do anyway.

The arrival of the minivans/microbuses sort of surprised me.  Perhaps they were shuttles from far-flung parking areas, because there weren’t enough valets to drive everyone’s car back and forth, but there’s something anticlimatic about arriving to such a Big Event in a glorified Mom van.  It put me slightly in mind of the Town and Country Hearse conversion.  If I have to go to a high faluting event and wear scratchy clothes, be friendly with people I don’t know from Adam’s housecat, and be on my best behavior, I want to make an Entrance rather than ride in a microbus with fifteen other people.  But then again, how people arrive at such events is determined by how far up the chain you are.   At an event like this I would be the Turd Entering the Punch Bowl,  like I had to be at my sister’s wedding, which is another reason I wouldn’t want to have to go.   I know my station in life: just slightly removed from the trailer park.  My hair designer is whoever is currently working at whichever Great Clips I have the coupon for, my colorist is Nice and Easy #124, and my clothing is provided by a combination of discount sources- including the discount rack at Target, Goodwill, garage sales, and the clearance items I find at various discount clothing sites online.

I can’t say that I am necessarily jealous of the high-faluting set, other than they generally don’t have to worry about whether they can afford both food and scripts.  I’m not a terribly social person anyway.

Even so, (back to the stop and gawk mentality…) It was interesting to see some of the guests.  I think the most outrageous hat of the day prize has to go to Princess Beatrice.

I don’t think I’ve seen anything that outrageous even on the black church ladies.  For good or ill, it got her noticed, which I think is the whole point of the hat thing. Women with funky hats do get noticed.

I thought it a bit strange that Elton John and his significant other were invited, but Elton is a good friend of the Queen, so I guess that was sort of a logical invite.  I am glad to see Elton was dressed as a man and not in a dress or a Donald Duck costume or something.  It would have been a lot more fun to watch, though.

People are always watching to see if people will fall, or knock things over, or puke or do something else embarrassing at high-faluting, high profile occasions like this.  I’m sure people were watching to see if the wind would blow up ladies’ skirts, or if the little kids would fight, or someone would fall, etc. and so on.   I’m sure photographers would kill for a shot of some high profile socialite or even one of the royals picking their nose, picking their crotch, falling, making nasty faces, breaking a heel, the list goes on.  There are entire TV shows based up on unknown people doing stupid things (Most Daring, Smoking Gun Presents, etc.) so it’s even more priceless to the viewers when someone important screws up.  I have to admit I enjoy the crap out of that kind of stuff even though I probably shouldn’t.  But who’s not going to laugh about some skater nutting himself while trying to jump rails, or some idiot falling through a drop ceiling in the midst of committing a robbery?

Maybe part of the reason why we watch things like royal weddings or Presidential funerals or other high pomp and circumstance events is not because we necessarily enjoy them, but because our own lives are rather colorless and boring by comparison.  Nobody cares about some obscure, aging, cougar who sells automotive parts in the heart of fly-over country. When Ronald Reagan died, he had a 21 gun salute and a pretty impressive send off.  When I die, Steve-o will get my ashes from the crematory, and like as not he will store them in an old Folger’s can that he will later mistake for an ashtray. Granted, Reagan had a lot more useful life than I could ever have, so he deserved a good send off.

Maybe we watch such things to simply gawk at the strange clothes.

However, we can see a lot stranger clothing without ever having to leave the States.

And even better:

Royals vs. Rednecks, Nuptial Nuttiness, and My View from the Ivory Tower (heh-heh)

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There are important differences to note between the British Royal Family and American rednecks.  I shouldn’t bad mouth British royals too harshly, as I may be distantly related to them, which is kind of a scary thought.  I did get somewhat lucky though.  Despite having a lot of English ancestry, (there’s a good number of Scots in my pedigree too) somehow, out of all my family, without extreme surgical intervention, I have nice teeth.   The rest of them have been cursed with varying degrees of defective and horribly malformed dentition, and they get it honestly.   So I should be tactful, at least.  While British royals and American rednecks share a (somewhat) common language, and a certain degree of inbreeding, the similarities stop there. 

Usually, male British royals are fortunate enough to find women who are significantly smaller than feeder hogs.  The men are also significantly larger than Chihuahuas also, thus for the British royal couple as opposed to the American redneck couple, the sexual dimorphism  is exactly reversed.  British royal men are significantly larger than the women.   Unlike most mammals, redneck females tend to outsize their male counterparts by a ratio of three to one- as in a 300# woman will usually be found sporting a 100# man.  In some ways it’s kind of funny to watch. 

I had a (female) friend in high school who was 6’2″ and 320#.  Her boyfriend was probably 5’6″ and 110# soaking wet.  Both of them were uglier than sin to boot. She looked sort of like Hulk Hogan in drag.  He looked like a very freckled version of Raggedy Andy, complete with unruly, bright red hair.   She definitely wore the pants in that relationship.  I remember going to visit her one day and as I was getting out of my car, to my surprise, I saw her scrawny little bird of a man flying through the screen door, head first.  Apparently he had drank the last of her beer and smoked the last of her smokes (and she was a three pack a day smoker- Marlboro Menthols, smoked one after the other, down to the filters.  I did the same thing-only with Marlboro Reds, back then.)  She had requested him to go to the drive-thru to replenish her beer and smokes supply.  He said, “no,”  so she took him by the collar and the belt loops and tossed him out the (closed) screen door, whilst informing him (in a not very polite manner) that he will go get beer and smokes, and he’d better hop to. 

Thankfully the two of them never got married.  They shacked up for a couple of years, but he left when he found out that neither one of the twins were his.

Whenever the royals get married it is a Big Deal.  Since they are Britain’s answer to Hollywood, it sort of stands to reason.  Rednecks generally have little or no money and even when they do they spend it in horribly bad taste. This is why rednecks generally prefer to gawk at the Hollywood set.  It’s a lot more pleasant visual than looking in the mirror.   The royals, like Hollywood stars, have money, so it’s no big deal for them to put on a Big Show and to do it right, without a woman having to resort to buying her wedding gown on the discount rack at Wal Mart and putting the neighbor’s Shih-Tzu in a dress and making her the maid of honor because none of her friends can afford to be bridesmaids.  I’ve been railroaded into that mess– thanks to my sadistic oldest sister who doesn’t understand I’m poor- and I wouldn’t wish it on any woman, especially one who (like me) just happened to be going through a divorce at the time.  However, I’m sure that the bridesmaids in a royal wedding a.) don’t have to buy their own dresses, and b.) could easily afford it even if they did have to buy their own dresses. 

Redneck weddings, while tacky, are a lot more fun than the formal gatherings (like my sister’s wedding with the high faluting reception, the $7000 wedding gown- thank God she paid for that monstrosity- and the $300 bridesmaid dresses we had to somehow pay for) of the more civilized.  Where else would it be “normal” for the bride to be at least in the late second trimester of pregnancy, a Twinkie be considered a reasonable facsimile for wedding cake, a Rebel flag a suitable decoration, and Wal Mart $3.00 shower shoes deemed to be acceptable footwear?

The rifles on the cake are a nice touch too.

I have to admit that I am probably the last person to seek for advice on  “How to Have a Happy Marriage.”   I could offer advice on “How to Abide a High Maintenance Spouse Without Throttling Him or Going Insane,” but this is an ongoing endeavor that I’m still working on.  Anyone who thinks the whole marriage thing is easy apparently is not married to a man with the mental and emotional maturity of a toddler. 

I think it’s funny how much Americans get into the royal family business.   Perhaps it may go back to sharing a language, some common history, and for some people, common ancestry with the British.  It’s still funny to watch. 

There is a certain irony that in the US, our inbred minions are generally confined to West Virginia and other remote parts of Appalachia.  In the UK, they’re royalty. 

I probably won’t be watching the royal wedding tomorrow.  I stopped believing in fairy tales many years ago. 

I am glad that at least for my second wedding (the advantage of not informing Mom) we dispensed with the formalities and just went to the court house.  It was a lot less traumatic and a lot less expensive, and did not involve railroading any friends or family members into buying clothing they will never wear again,  paying for road trips they can’t afford, or thrusting anyone into an awkward and painful emotional situation.

I simply don’t get the whole Bridezilla mentality, especially today when a good number of marriages either end in divorce or the couple ends up being glorified roommates.  I see the reality of one year, five years, ten years later, and I just can’t get into the celebratory mood. 

At least funerals (while equally awkward and just as unpleasant to attend as a high brow wedding) have a finality to them.  Nobody really has to think too much about the deceased once the funeral is over.  They’re done with dealing with bullshit, and they’ve already made the decisions (for good or ill) that decide their place in eternity.  When you’re dead, you’re done.   Game over. Funerals are simply occasions to comfort the living.  Weddings are occasions to say to one’s self, “They have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into,”  and to make a mental wager on how long the marriage will last.  The suffering has only just begun.

I got the snotty guy, but he didn’t come with any money.  Damn.

The Error of Obama, the “Birther” Issue is Not the (Primary) Issue, and 2012

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Color me vindictive, but I don’t believe everything I read, and even if I see it, I don’t necessarily believe that either.  It’s obvious that this picture is not proof that Obama literally took a trip down a kiddie slide to the Lake of Fire, although it is a mildly entertaining visual.  Documents can be forged, too.  With enough research and time and friends in low places, I could come up with a realistic looking birth certificate from anywhere.

I don’t really care where Obama was born- in a barn, in a box, in a train, with a fox…I do not like him, Sam I Am.  I would sooner vote for Green Eggs and Ham.

I’m not saying the Constitution is something to take lightly either.  A person who is born to two American citizens on American soil is a natural born citizen.  A person born to one American citizen and one foreigner (regardless of where) has dual citizenship until they reach the age of majority and can decide for themselves which citizenship they will take up.  We have a friend who had a very similar situation- one of his parents was an American citizen, the other a British subject.  When he was 18 and decided to join the Marines, he had to declare that he chose American citizenship.   A person born with dual citizenship (regardless of where)  is technically NOT a natural born American citizen, and is NOT eligible to hold the office of President.

The eligibility to hold office issue is serious, and thumbing one’s nose at the Constitution is not to be taken lightly, but I am more concerned with Obama’s performance (or should I say lack thereof) as President.  As much as I want to try to say something nice about the guy, the only nice thing I can honestly say about him is that he makes Jimmy Carter look good, Bill Clinton almost appear to be honest, and Dick Nixon. by comparison, is as innocent as a choir boy.

Even if Obama’s birth would have been filmed for posterity, and was undeniably proven to have occurred on American soil, and he were born to two verifiable American citizens, the fact is, he has brought more of what this country absolutely does NOT need.

A few examples:

Railroading through “Obamacare”- a nightmare of regulation and red tape engineered for the sole purpose of making healthcare even more impossible for the middle class to pay for.  Of course,  the middle class is stuck paying for everyone else to get what the middle class can’t afford- for free.  I’m proud to know that my tax dollars are paying for geezers on Medicare to get free pecker pumps-so they can still have fun in the sack, while I scrounge and go without other necessities just to be able to pay outrageously inflated prices for my own scripts and insulin- to keep myself alive.

The fact that Obama and his minions refer to abortion as “healthcare” and want tax money to pay for that too is simply more evidence of how morally bankrupt this guy is.

Sucking up to foreign despots and sympathizing with terrorists (*newsflash*- enemies of the state are NOT to be accorded the Constitutional rights of US citizens…) instead of growing a pair and calling evil for what it is.

Failing to again, grow a pair, and inform the Welfare nation that the handouts (especially those paid for at the expense of those who not only work for a living, but pay for all the deadbeats too) are officially dried up.

Failing to declare a national state of emergency and REQUIRE that we drill for oil where it is available here in this country, regardless of the NIMBYs, regardless of the cries of the tree huggers and the trial lawyers that will inevitably follow them.  Drilling for oil and environmental conservation are not mutually exclusive goals.  The reality is until we find a viable replacement for petroleum we need to produce our own and end our dependence on foreign oil.  If we were able to supply our own oil- even on a temporary basis- we could tell the entire Middle East to go blow.  Let them kill each other, since that’s what they want to do anyway, and when the jihad ends and the dust clears, we can move in and take it over.  They get their 70 virgins for boldly dying in jihad, (or eternity in the Lake of Fire…depending on your perspective) and we get the oil.  Win-Win!

Sucking up to Islamic nut jobs who want to see all Americans dead.  Islam is NOT a “religion of peace.”  Anyone who claims that has never read the Quran or learned much about the life of Mohammed.  Get a clue.  But it goes back to sucking up to terrorists and not having the balls to call evil what it is.

Generally I try not to be too obsessed with things political, because that’s one of the easiest ways for me to get aggravated about things that in large part, I can’t change.

I’ve heard it said that we get the leaders we deserve.  Apathy, ignorance, and a taste for free bread and circuses gave us Obama.  I can only hope that someone, somewhere, will give the Republicans a better choice than:

Donald Trump:  I like the Donald in many ways, especially by being a thorn in Obama’s side, but he’s too sensational, and he reminds me way too much of Ross Perot.

Sarah Palin:  I like Sarah too, but she’s too flighty and too easily mocked by the media.  They hate her, and will do anything to cast her in a negative light.  I hate to say it, but she also does come off as being a dingbat at times, which doesn’t help her when the media is looking for any slip of the tongue, educational gap, or error in etiquette.

Huckabee and /or Romney:  I never liked either of them.  Both are lame, not conservative enough, and the same old warmed over tired guys from 2008.

I would like to see Chris Christie run.  I think he would be a very good choice to not only supplant Obama, but to reverse some of the damage Obama’s done.

I know that Obama releasing a long form of his birth certificate is not going to satisfy the “birthers” or settle the debate about his eligibility for office.  The Fourteenth Amendment, Section 3 gives Constitutional validity to impeach Obama right off- without even looking at the birther issue.  Something there about giving aid and comfort to enemies of the United States rings a bell.

Perhaps Obama and his flagrant disregard for human life, morality, the Constitution and other essential components of American government as it was intended to be will wake some people up out of their apathetic fog come 2012.  What is equally important is that he is not replaced with yet another milquetoast puppet, but a real leader. 

If the choice were between Obama and Ron Jeremy, (thankfully it’s not…) I’d probably have to go with Ron Jeremy, and that’s sad.

You Might Turn Blue and Die (or Not,) Pharmaceutical Fun, and Science?

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Today’s science is tomorrow’s quackery.  Case in point- the “medicated” cigarettes shown above are in a museum.  I don’t know of any Dr. who would recommend smoking anything for the “temporary relief of the paroxysms of asthma.”  I don’t know of any Dr.s who would use the word “paroxysm,” even though it’s a pretty cool word.  Here’s the definition according to Merriam-Webster:

paroxysm: (n)
1: a fit, attack, or sudden increase or recurrence of symptoms (as of a disease) : convulsion <a paroxysm of coughing>
2: a sudden violent emotion or action : outburst <a paroxysm of rage>
 
In my world, synonyms for “fit” are always welcomed, if for no other reason than to keep me from sounding as if I am repeating myself incessantly.
 
If I do no other service in this world, I can only hope to expand someone’s vocabulary.
 
I would love to find a pic of it, but there was an old patent medicine featured on the Science Channel program, Oddities, that was supposed to contain strychnine and testicles- and 18% alcohol, ostensibly to help one forget that he was not only drinking powdered gonads, but was also poisoning himself.  100 years ago, the testicle tonic would be considered modern pharmacopoeia.  Today it would be considered just plain gross and poisonous, but science, like history, has to be taken in context.  100 years ago, cocaine was believed to be therapeutic.  How any of our ancestors lived long enough to procreate is beyond me.
 
I’m sure that some of the pharmaceuticals we use today will be eliminated or phased out due to side effects.  I just read today that benzocaine- a topical anesthetic found in Blistex and cough drops- can make you turn blue and die if you OD on it.  Apparently if you OD on this stuff you can get methemoglobinemia  ,which sounds like a really scary condition in which you turn blue because you can’t get enough oxygen in your blood, so you die.   I wonder if it’s in Carmex, because that’s generally my cracked-lip remedy of choice.  I would hate to begin my trip to the Great Beyond by OD ing on Carmex.
How many of us remember the old style mercury thermometers- or playing with liquid mercury in science class?  Now mercury is considered hazmat.  Apparently you can touch it and die or something. That would have been handy information back in 1980-whatever when we were farking around with the stuff.   Then again, apparently kids who fail to wear a helmet while riding a bike, pedaling a Big Wheel, swimming or (let’s hope the really paranoid people out there don’t jump on this bandwagon) eating a cheese sandwich, risk grievous head injury should they fall and skin a knee. 
 
No wonder kids are fat, if they have to suit up for a moonwalk just to go out and get some bloody exercise.  We got plenty of exercise back in the Dark Ages, and it was bloody at times, but scars add character.  I must have a lot of character as I have plenty of scars from cuts, scrapes, burns, falls, etc.  Even as uncoordinated as I am, I usually managed not to bang my head on stuff.  My arms and legs, not so lucky- but I have managed to go 42 years and still have all my fingers and toes, which given my complete lack of physical prowess- and complete lack of protective battle gear to play in as a child- is pretty impressive.
I can see some advantages in this kind of protective play gear had it been available to me as a child.  I probably would not have gotten nearly as much sunburn.  I also probably wouldn’t have felt as much pain as I was getting my ass kicked either.  However, I do see some distinct potential for dehydration and hyperthermia (overheating) if one were to wear this on a hot day.
 
I think part of the paranoia surrounding one’s offspring comes in part from the fact that people don’t have as many kids.  When you have three or four kids they might seem a bit more expendable than when you only have one.  People also have to spend a lot more money on kids today, so children just playing like normal kids jeopardize your investment . The calamity factor- and the potential for catastrophic expense- rises exponentially when they go out and do stupid and reckless things. 
 
I know the incident when the POMC had to get crowns and multiple root canals after some “buddies” of his sabotaged his bike (something about 160# of fourteen year old boy hitting the pavement mouth first is really not good for his dental health) cost me over three thousand dollars- and that was after the insurance paid. I couldn’t leave him to go through life with a Billy Bob mouth- and the crowns are lovely- but now I see why some mothers strap a helmet on their offspring at birth and don’t remove it until the child is potty trained, literate and no longer on a parental health insurance policy.  The bad thing about that particular incident is that he would have needed a mouth guard to mitigate this injury.
 
Even if he had been wearing a helmet (which I seriously doubt, knowing him) it wouldn’t have done jack to protect his mouth unless he would have had one of those full face motorcycle helmets. I can only imagine the mocking he would have gotten from his posse for wearing a full face motorcycle helmet to ride a BMX bike.

I wonder if it would do me any good to start wearing a helmet now?  Probably not.

Then again, science has advanced from the days of patent medicines with really gross stuff in them, at least I hope.

Pile is an old time euphemism for hemorrhoid. Another fun fact to share with friends and family, best reserved for conversation over the dinner table,at least if you’re looking for shock value.  I have to wonder if the “active ingredient” in the A.J.P. Pile Cure is kerosene.  It wouldn’t surprise me.   If it’s burnin’ it’s workin’!

’80’s Nostalgia, Humor in Suffering, and Things I Never Thought I’d See in a Museum

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I thought it was weird when I saw the 1981 Reagan Limousine on display four years ago.  It was on display when I took Steve-o and his woman du jour to the Henry Ford Museum, lined up along with the Kennedy Assassination Limo and a string of other Presidential limos dating back to Roosevelt.  I need to make it a point to take a trip up there again soon, even though I absolutely hate the crappy roads in Detroit, and the Dearborn area is rather frightening even in the daytime.

Granted, this is a historical car- and technically it does belong in a museum- but the fact that the props (ok, artifacts) from events I remember as if they were yesterday are in museums is a bit disquieting.  As far as I’m concerned (yes, I know he died in 2004) Reagan should still be President, riding around in that limo.  I bet Reagan is spinning in his grave at the antics of his successors (Bill Clinton was bad enough- and a tomcat- but even though as far as anyone knows, he keeps his pants on, Obama is far worse) and that’s sad.   We could really use someone like Reagan today.  To quote a bumper sticker that I would put on the HK Yaris if I had enough room:

In the 80’s we had Bob Hope, Johnny Cash and President Reagan. Today we have No Hope, No Cash and President Obama.

I also like this one:

Put the Constitution on His Teleprompter!

I’m sure Obama could use some fresh new reading. 

The statement comparing the 80’s to today almost makes me depressed.  It makes me want to vote for Donald Trump, even though he’s no Reagan.  I like him better than the same old tired milquetoasts that have been dominating the Republican mainstream the past few years. Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee are just plain too lame.  Like him, or hate him, The Donald has balls.  We need a President with balls. Obama has none.  I believe if he’s not directly in cahoots with terrorist nations and organizations, he’s not doing anything to stop them or even mitigate their actions.  He’s complicit with Black genocide in supporting abortion “rights” that are NOT the state’s to give and are clearly morally wrong.  Reagan was the last one who had the courage to call evil what it is and to do what was right even when it wasn’t popular.  I don’t know if Trump is in that league, but I think he is more aware of the right course for this country, at least in regard to economics and foreign policy, than Obama ever could be.  

The sad thing is back in the 90’s I didn’t think it could get any worse than Bill Clinton.  I was absolutely shocked at the dress-stain incident even though Clinton’s foreign policy (or the lack thereof) was even more devastating to the country than the shame he brought to the Oval Office.   Even so, if someone were to compare Clinton vs. Obama, I hate to say it, but I would take Bill Clinton in a heartbeat (which is disturbing clear down to my conservative Republican soul.)  If there is worse than Obama, and given human nature there is (even though we have not seen it in an American President, and I hope we never do) but- humanity gave us Stalin, Mao and Hitler after all.  I hope people aren’t dumb enough to vote for him/her.

One thing I also noted on our trip to the Henry Ford Museum was an exhibit on 80’s ephemera in which there was a Marlboro Lights 100’s pack, (now I don’t see that as historically worthy, but I smoked my share back then, so maybe so) and a collection of old vinyl records to die for by- Boston, Foreigner, The Police, Iron Maiden, Journey, and many other good ones.  The album art was so much better back then.  Someone actually had to draw them instead of just getting into some computer program and playing with it to make some funky design.   I still say the Journey Departure cover is one of the best:

We thought Defender was a “futuristic” video game.  Then again, we actually took quarters and went to the arcade to play video games and pinball. 

I still think it would be a much better world if Reagan were in the White House, and Neal Schon still had his fro.

Makes me wish it were 1981 again…only not as a geeky 12 year old who got beat up every day.  If it were 1981 and I knew what I do now it would be interesting.  I could have a lot of fun with that.

Speaking of Journey, I decided to go ahead and get my ticket for the show on August 5, even though it is at Crew Stadium (outside.)  I don’t generally like to go to outside shows because of the lack of A/C, but it starts at 7PM, so at least it’s not in the heat of the day.  Journey only makes it to Columbus every couple of years or so, and they aren’t getting any younger.  Neal Schon is pushing 60, Jonathan and Ross are over 60, and Arnel and Deen are both over 40, and given the lifespans of rock musicians, that’s not a comforting thought.  I should take any opportunity to see them that I can get. Foreigner and Night Ranger (also very good bands live) are opening for them, so this is a show worth having to contend with stygian heat and/or the prospect of torrential rain. The nice thing about this show is that it will be an older crowd.  Usually the over 40 set is not into throwing things, fighting or stealing stuff- and it’s reserved seats- so barring weather extremes, it should be a pleasant evening. 

Jerry has been on yet another trip on the self-pity express.  I don’t feel sorry for him.  He brings his own misery upon himself.  I do try to find the humor in it, otherwise I’d have to throttle him. 

Last night he decided to go to the hell hole again.  He staggered in around 10PM which was nice.  I had a quiet evening until he came home.  The best thing for me to do is to pretend I’m asleep.  He knows better than to try to wake me up- even when he’s shitfaced, usually- because I am rather nasty when I’m disturbed late at night.  If he sees that I’m awake he will torment me, and I’ll never get to bed, but if I stay under the radar he will usually prattle on to the walls (or Isabel if she is in view) about various unintelligible nonsense for an hour or so until he passes out.  I got lucky last night.  He was sprawled across the bed, pants down, snoring and near comatose before 11. 

Jerry has had many shitfaced conversations with poor Isabel.  According to him, she’s the only one who understands him when he’s shitfaced.  I never knew that cats could understand the ramblings of the insanely drunk. 

I should put a collar on Isabel with a speaker in it.  When Jerry’s shitfaced and talks to her, I could have her reply through her collar speaker.  It would be a hoot.

Jerry: “Whaats aff? Gotta pith…”  (falling over something)

Isabel: “Go to bed, shit head!”

Jerry: “Where’s foooooooooood?”

Isabel: “Shut up, or it’s gonna be up your ass.” 

That could be funny.  Isabel can out run him, and she always has the option of disappearing down the cat hole (there’s a cat-sized hole in the basement door for cat access so they can use the litter box, but the dogs can’t get to the litter box and use it as a snack bar) when she’s had enough of his “conversation.”

Funky Food, Shutting Up Is Hard to Do, and Some Cheese for That Whine?

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This sign is from the frozen custard shop across the street.  Frozen custard is somewhat like ice cream or frozen yogurt only a bit thicker.  I have not ventured to try the chicken salad boat.   The sign simply struck me funny for two reasons- one, that it would have been a lot funnier had they been extolling the wonders of a tuna salad boat, (I simply adore double entendre as a form of humor,) and that chocolate covered strawberry anything does not generally go well with meat salads.  The chocolate covered strawberry frozen custard is good, but not necessarily with a chicken salad boat.

I am not a huge fan of meat salads, as most of the time they are usually made with vast quantities of mayonnaise.  I am not a picky eater for the most part, but there’s something about mayonnaise that gags me.  When I make tuna salad for my own consumption there is usually more mustard in it than mayonnaise, and the only mayonnaise I use is the low fat Miracle Whip, which doesn’t taste so much like congealed lard.

One fun food I have actually tried- and like- is spaghetti tacos.  Spaghetti in a taco shell, while messy, is quite tasty.

That makes me hungry just looking at it.

Jerry has been on a roll this weekend, and not in a good way.  I shouldn’t have indulged him.  I felt guilty about avoiding driving him around on his little forays into garage sale land the past couple of Saturdays, so I got up early, (forgoing my much anticipated Saturday nap,) fixed him breakfast, and took him out for six hours of delightful incessant bitching as we were trolling for garage sales in the wind and rain.  The only bright spot in that for him was that he did finally find a lawn mower, though it’s not quite what he wants.  I did find a nice long black sweater which I had been looking for but hadn’t been able to find in my size and/or price range.

But there’s only so much whining even I can take.  I know I’m in trouble when I just plain tune him out as he prattles on and on about how he doesn’t like his shoes (his own damned fault for buying those cheap ass velcro sneakers from Wal Mart) and I don’t do _________the right way or I do too much___________ or not enough_________ .  I’ve already tuned out all of his commentary on my driving.  That’s automatic, otherwise I would have to reach over and throttle him good.   I have driven many more thousands of miles than he has in my lifetime, AND, I wasn’t the one who got completely shit faced at the hell hole the previous evening.  I didn’t wake up forty proof.  If he had chosen to drive yesterday morning, he could have still got popped for DUI.   It would have been a miracle to find blood in his alcohol stream. As the sober one,  as far as I’m concerned, if I’m driving, I have the express privilege of ignoring all the drunken whiner’s comments.

I will say about the cheapo Wal Mart shoes, that he gets what he deserves for refusing to wear the good New Balance shoes I bought him.  At least I was able to send the New Balance shoes back and recoup my $70.  He can do a Howard Hughes and wear Kleenex boxes on his feet for all I care if he wants to be that way.

Jerry has continued his whiny diatribe into today.  I should have known better than to waste my time fixing him breakfast (again.)

“But I don’t want hash and fried potatoes…”  He wanted to say it, but I think some little glitter of intelligence way back in the reptilian part of his brain warned him that if he did, I would smack him into next Tuesday.  He didn’t need to say it.  He just ate a couple of bites-reminiscent of Pee Wee Herman eating breakfast cereal (Mr. T Cereal, to be exact)  in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, then gave the rest of it to the dogs.  I’m sure he laid some kind of sob story on his Mom to end up coming home from her house with a big bowl of pinto beans and cornbread.  Fine.  If she feeds him, I don’t have to listen to him whine about the food.  The irony is that his Mom could give him dog food and he’d like it, and I could give him shrimp and steak and he would bitch about it.  More fun with yet another POMC.  I hope I’ve done a better job with mine.  At least Steve-o knows better than to pull the whiny shit with me.

Now he is engaged in the Dandelion War again- running around with the pesticide sprayer in thirty mile an hour winds like some deranged mental case thinking he’s going to make the yard look better than the insurance agency next door- never mind that they can afford to hire a team of Mexican landscapers to do their yard work.

All that hard work so the freakazoids from the Drunk and Domestics can use the yard as their personal disposal for their cig packs, food wrappers, drinky cups and, yes, trucker bombs.

At least if he’s outside I can’t hear him whine.

If Jerry whines in the forest and nobody hears him, is he still whining?

I would say yes.  If he’s breathing and conscious, he’s whining.

I have some Colby cheese in the fridge for him but a.) he might have to look behind something, guaranteeing he won’t find it, or b.) he won’t want Colby cheese, or he might refuse to eat the store brand.


Clara is not amused.  Clara has no problem eating store brand cheese.