A Clockwork Heart, Burned Out, and Possibly Quite Nuts

April 24, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I’ve always admired the art of clockwork.

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

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

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

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

Dudes do metal better than chicks anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tempting, but not very practical.

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

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

April 3, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hair and teeth optional, especially at my age.

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 26, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Perhaps old Fred got the real point in the end.

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

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

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

APD – Acute Prozac Deficiency (depression) at times

HIVI – Husband Is Village Idiot

I freely admit to those.

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

FUBAR – Fucked up beyond all repair/recognition

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

GOK – God Only Knows

PBOO – Pine Box On Order

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

SBOD – Stupid bitch/bastard on drugs

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

SHAD – Syphilitic, Hypochondriac, Alcoholic Degenerate

TTJ -Transfer to Jesus

TTOAST – Take Them Out and Shoot Them

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

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

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

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

Just a series of controlled explosions, folks!

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

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

You could almost still wear the loafers.

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

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

March 5, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ewww.

I don’t think this winter will ever end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Lupercalia! Which is So Appropriate Because…

February 14, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Roadkill: It’s What’s for Dinner!

Valentine’s Day as a holiday has always sort of given me the creeps. It’s named after a Christian martyr who according to legend was killed by having his heart cut out. So we make nice little chocolates and cookies with hearts on them to commemorate this why? As far as celebrating holidays that have bizarre origins, it would be more fun to commemorate Bastille Day with scale model guillotines and flying Dennis Rodman ~~doll~~ action figure heads, but I’m weird that way.

The ~~doll~~ action figure came with two heads.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t always Valentine’s day. It actually began as a co-opting of a popular pagan holiday that was celebrated around the middle of February- Lupercalia. Basically it was “The Wolf Festival.” Along with a lot of drinking and fertility rites, that is. What makes this different from The-Game-We-Cannot-Name Sunday or any other redneck beer drinking holiday, except that even rednecks frown upon animal sacrifice? Perhaps the main distinction is that in redneck fornication, procreation generally is not the primary goal. Hence the importance of the Trojan Man.

Because this is all that stands between you and 18+ years of child support.

I don’t believe in romantic love. Not one bit. If Jerry buys me something it’s usually because it’s something he wants. The last thing he bought me was a Stoeger Condor Competition 20 gauge over/under shotgun. It is a sweet shotgun, but I think he enjoys shooting it (and bragging to the guys at the club what a great deal he got on it) more than I do. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a good shotgun, but it’s not exactly the gift that screams “hot teenage lust.” Not that “hot teenage lust” was ever on my agenda to begin with.

A holiday for dogs, on the other hand, isn’t a bad idea. The interesting thing about a “wolf festival” is that dogs are wolves. Literally.

Grey wolf taxonomic classification: Canis lupus lupus

Domestic dog (all breeds): Canis lupus familiaris

All the same species as the grey wolf. Even the ankle biters.

I’ve also said it before that since dogs are a subspecies of wolf, it’s imperative to respect that. If dogs are improperly treated and/or we humans don’t pay attention to their signals and body language, they can be deadly. Correctly handled and respected, they can become amazing companions, protectors and friends. I trust my dogs more than people, and with good reason.

Not to mention AIDS, chlamydia, genital warts and herpes!

The only thing that disturbs me about those old-time VD warnings is that they always showed women as being carriers of VD. Dudes spread it too. How do you think the women got it?

I always thought Valentine’s Day, with all the insinuation of love being in the air, as a perfect opportunity to warn against Venereal Disease. Here’s a little song from 1969, just in case anyone needs some VD awareness. It’s called “VD is for Everybody” and has a cute little video that goes with it. Just doing my duty to further public health.

Speaking of public health, as I was trolling along, I found another holiday worth celebrating:

I have some questions about Rabies Day.

1. Is this about getting rabies? If so, this could be a very painful and drawn out form of population control. I can think of much easier ways to “cull the herd,” such as leaving the stupid to their own devices, to earn their Darwin Awards without any interference from others.

2. Is this about getting rabies shots and/or preventing rabies? I can stand behind that. I definitely don’t want to get the rabies.

I don’t want to get the cholera either:

“Beware of Drunkenness- nothing is so likely to bring on Disease.” Amazing. Public health authorities knew this back in the 1830’s, that being drunk and dirty could bring on disease. I would like to know where you find hot lime, though.

I think there should be more public campaigns to advocate personal hygiene and cleanliness. It seems that being clean and well groomed is more of an exception than a rule, and then you wonder why you’re surrounded with the hacking, coughing, chronically ill masses.

Of course, as more and more of the people in this country are growing up raised by wolves, what can one expect?

More Central Ohio White Death, More Funky Victorian Pics, and Other Odds and Ends

February 7, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I’m still trying to figure out this Rube Goldberg device.

This contraption, which I think is some kind of spinal correction device (?) could also have afforded some tactical advantage when other kids are chasing you down to kick your ass. I can see where it could be a sort of almost skateboard without the board. I love Victorian ingenuity. Strange thing is that even in the early 1980’s (and I’m not sure whether or not this is still being done in schools) all the girls had to get checked for scoliosis in 7th and 8th grade.

The scoliosis check was not what I’d call a good time. All the 7th and 8th grade girls were herded into the gym, (wearing those hideous gym suits, or in my case, since I had a Doctor’s Note permanently freeing me from gym class, a t-shirt and shorts) lined up in alphabetical order, then we either had to unzip the gym suit or pull up our t-shirt and let (supposedly) a nurse trace our spines with her finger and verify that our spines were straight.

If you were found to have scoliosis (a couple of girls did have it) then you were sent to an orthopedist who would fit you with a full torso brace with metal stays and tie up straps that you had to wear 24/7 for two or three years unless you wanted to become a hideously deformed hunchback.

Imagine having to wear this continuously – all through high summer. Oh, the stink!

I’m glad my spine stayed straight.

This is one of the snow piles outside of Target. It’s 5°.

But, as always, they set up the swimsuit racks the week after New Year’s!

The City of Columbus, I must say has been doing an abysmal job in clearing the snow. ODOT got the freeways cleared right away, but the major through roads that are the city’s responsibility, by and large haven’t been touched. I have to wonder what the hell they’re doing with all that income tax money, since the state and the surrounding localities are seeming to cope pretty well with snow removal. I know that corruption and graft and union thuggery run amok in Mayor Coleman’s hizzy. I’m surprised he didn’t ask for emergency money from his homeboy Obama to clear out Downtown.

It didn’t used to be that way, and it’s sad. The illustrious Mayor-for-Life Coleman has ran the police department into the ground, presided over (and approved of) the corruption and vice and absolute lack of accountability in the schools, and now the city can’t seem to get the crews out to clear the freaking snow. Coleman will keep on getting re-elected though, because a.) there’s no term limit, and b.) he kisses up to the gimme crowd. While everyone (me included) who can moves to the freaking suburbs because of the uncontrolled druggies and rampant crime-but if you work in the city limits (I do) you still have to pay income tax so this gimme-appeaser and cronies can keep on subsidizing the gimme crowd. The worst thing about living in the suburbs is that I can’t vote against this shyster when he runs for (and gets elected) mayor again.

So much for the Things-I-Can’t-Change.

I have been somewhat remiss as of late in not posting more of those postmortems that people just can’t help gawking at. It’s bad that I am so bored that I’m trolling postmortems again, but it is February. What else am I supposed to do? February always makes me think about death. Maybe it’s because I have to go to the BMV to get my car registration, and that’s always depressing.

The only way I’d ever been that close to either of my sisters, voluntarily, is if I’d been dead– which I think these two are.

Generally, if either of my sisters had been that close to me when I was a little kid, it was because they had me in a headlock, pounding me with whatever sort of pointy or heavy object that was handy.

I am surprised that I actually survived childhood with only minor scarring and disfigurement. The psychological damage- well, the Prozac does help.

Gam-Gam died in 1890, but those eyes are still watching you!

I know it’s morbid, but I think the postmortem pics are a forerunner of the Open Casket Funeral, which I find most distasteful in almost every instance. I can’t get the images of my grandmothers in their coffins with badly done makeup, in those awful pink nighties out of my head, let alone the image of Aunt Ellen (the non-makeup wearing Pentecostal) slathered down with day-glo orange lipstick and all dolled up as if she were headed for the Oompa-Loompa Prom.

I told Steve-o to cremate me when I die, but knowing him (and I’ve said this before) he will have me taxidermied and made into a coffee table.

“Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide”- Pink Floyd, “High Hopes”

Perhaps it is true that one can never really go back home again, but in another sense it’s also true that one can never really leave. It’s amazing how our society forgets the past so quickly, and repeats its mistakes so readily. Memory, if anything, should serve as both a harbinger and a teacher.

I think we do ourselves a disservice when we neglect the study of history. It may not be a good idea to continually live in the past, and I have to guard against this, but to deliberately seek a sort of live-in-the-now amnesia isn’t very healthy either.

I’ve learned to be careful which bridges to burn and which ones to leave standing, although I can’t say I’ve mastered the art of moving forward, or of knowing which pieces of the past are worth holding on to, and which pieces are things I need to let go.

I’ll have to remember to check the empty seats in my car for Hitler before I go.

I think I’d be hella nervous if I were approached by a giant talking frog. But I’m paranoid like that.

Bodily Effluvia, Bizarre Dreams, and Silence

February 4, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I hate snot. Green snot, clear snot, yellow snot, brown snot, bloody snot. Snot out the nose. Snot out the mouth. Snot down the back of my throat. I’ve had it forever with snot.

Yet for the past four days, excessive snot, in all its disgusting, messy, and inconvenient forms, has been my sad reality.

Sunday I was tempted to grab a big piece of cardboard and a Sharpie and just write on it : CAN’T TALK / GO AWAY. When I’m feeling crappy I want to be left alone. Let me snot and sneeze and choke and spray snot chunks in relative peace. If I need something That Bad, I’ll go get it. Leave me alone to my vast stash of Nyquil and related patent remedies, so I can drift off to restless and strange dreams of swallowing aluminum cans, climbing mountains, and hanging out with the dude from Survivorman. That is not a good show to fall asleep to. Especially considering the dude eats bugs. That is not normal.

I know, lean protein, but ewwwwwwwwww!

I know that someone like me who is highly prone to a surplus of bodily effluvia of the mucoid kind should probably sell everything and move to the desert. The only problems with that are: 1.) Even if I sold everything I own, it wouldn’t get me much further than about Illinois, which is even worse than Ohio- worse climate, worse economically, etc. and so on. 2.) The desert, while dry, is HOT. I don’t do heat worth a tinker’s damn, especially since the Menopause Fairy has come to stay. I still get the wayward hot flash, even in below-freezing Central Ohio winter.

I’m stuck here, although I don’t refer to Central Ohio as the Armpit of North America any more. Not since I’ve been to Detroit. I’m not Catholic and I don’t believe in Purgatory, but if there were such a thing as Beezelbub’s Waiting Room, it would be located somewhere on 8 Mile Road. The greater Columbus area is paradise when compared to Detroit, or even Cleveland.

Clark Griswold wants to know: “Hey, kids, you see all this urban blight?”

Hint: It’s what happens when the gimme crowd takes over.

Not being able to talk has its advantages- once people get it that your voice has taken a hiatus they tend to leave you alone- but it has disadvantages as well.

It wasn’t very fun trying to communicate in the Sprint store on Saturday. My phone (admittedly it had gone long beyond its intended lifespan) bricked (bricked (v.) – to stop functioning, i.e. to effectively become a “brick.”) so I was more or less compelled to go to the Sprint store to get another phone so that communication with my son and other family members would still be possible. Even if I can’t talk, I can still text. If I have a working phone!!!

Even though the poor girl in the Sprint store probably had a hell of a time understanding me, she understood me well enough to retrieve my SD card from the old phone and transfer as much of my data as possible between the card and what I’d saved on Google. My old phone was old, but it was still an Android phone. It had some of the new amenities. Even so, now I know to save ALL my contacts to Google and not just here and there.

Thankfully (and with a much lighter wallet) I left with a working phone that I can text on and play my MP3s with. Well, a bit more than that. OK, so I let the tech geek in me have a bit of fun and I got the Note 3 that Steve-o was raving on and on about. I can draw pictures on it, and the camera’s better than my actual camera. I like it a lot, so far.

At least I can text…and then some.

I’ve been so choked up with snot that I’ve been without a voice pretty much since Saturday morning until this morning, and what little bit I have, is a little bit. I was able to drag my carcass in to work today which is a plus. I don’t like to call off on Mondays, but there’s no sense in coming in if I can’t talk to anyone and I’m blowing snot chunks all over them to boot. There’s also no sense in spreading whatever freaking germs are lurking in all that superfluous snot, although this time of year is a veritable germ smorgasbord no matter where you go or what you do. At least I wasn’t on the SS Montezuma’s Revenge like all those poor suckers who paid out the wazoo for cruises. I got good and infected right here at home, for free!

Which is worse? Shits or snots?

Even though I generally don’t get to pick, I think I can live with the shits better than the snots. Although neither are to be envied.

A Day Without Scatological References is a Day Without Sunshine, and Selected Sophomoric Observations

January 29, 2014Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

As long as we have this clear.

There is a classic scene from one of my favorite, and timeless movies, The Jerk, where Navin Johnson’s Dad explains to him the difference between shit and Shinola. For those who may not be aware, Shinola was a waxy shoe polish that was popular in the beginning of the 20th century. I know that sometimes I have a sophomoric obsession with things scatological, but it seems that many people in this world are having a hard time telling the difference.

I can go on and on about entropy and devolution- especially after perusing the illegitimate president’s mostly plagiarized speech (lots of tidbits lifted from the State of the Union address given by President G.W. Bush, 2007) and realizing that this despot is hell-bent on ruling by executive fiat, but there isn’t much I can do about that. Obama is pretty much beyond rationality, and the only course for rational people is to do what they can to mitigate his nonsense and attempt to block his unconstitutional actions for the next three years. Nothing productive or positive will get done in government as long as the Imperial BO is still squatting in the Oval Office, but hopefully by the grace of God (and a gridlocked Congress) some of the potential damage can be thwarted.

Let’s just say I wasn’t surprised by the last blast of hot air to come from Washington. Obama makes me want to puke.

Sometimes I think that if there is such a thing as parallel universes and/or if there is a universe for every possible combination of actions and decisions, that I got dropped in one of the more insane sets of possibilities. There are physicists who say that everything boils down to one big long complex equation. It probably does. Just don’t ask me to explain it.

I was doing good to pass high school algebra.

The really scary thing that I’ve come to realize is that the “powers that be” who have all sorts of high faluting expensive pieces of paper from supposedly prestigious institutions of learning, are proving themselves to be rank imbeciles. Maybe I’m just cynical, (and largely self-educated,) but I think these supposedly prestigious institutions care about two things: the money, and where the money’s coming from.

Maybe I’m being negative and fatalistic, but I am beginning to believe that higher education has been hijacked, and that the “powers that be” are presiding over a continual dumbing down of the populace. Sadly, such a theory makes sense. If you want to remain in power, and acquire more power, it might be in your best interests to keep your subjects stupid. That was the mindset behind the Romans’ free bread and circuses. Keep the people fat and sassy and uninformed, and they won’t care if you strip them of their rights.

Americans don’t even need the Olympics to be distracted. The Kardashians and Honey Boo Boo are enough.

See what I mean?

There isn’t much that I can do. I can try to find the humor in popular culture, but even that is a sort of bittersweet adventure. Some things are funny and some things are just plain sad. Why do the media care about people who dress up little girls to look like street walkers- and why do they follow around adult women who already look like street walkers who have nothing better to do than spend money on stupid things and cavort around with gangsta rappers? Are we obsessed with such bizarre families and weird behavior because the circus freak shows of days gone by have become politically incorrect? Instead of “Let’s go to the carnival to see the bearded lady, ” it’s “Let’s watch Mama June?”

Plus ςa change, plus c’est la même chose.

I enjoy perusing ads for Victorian patent medicines and other nostrums that were popular in the mid-to late 19th century. You just want to believe they would work even though most of the “medicines” were comprised of heroin, alcohol or a healthy combination of both.

You might not be “cured,” but you’ll be too stoned to care.

I also find humor in some of the 19th century euphemisms for ED (which is itself, a euphemism, but it’s just not nice to say “he has a limp dick.”)

Certain parts of the body enlarged…hmm? And exactly what is a tansy?

Now if I could get my hands on this and if it actually worked, I would be a most delighted old bitty.

I thought that was what that “Anabuse” pill was for – to make you puke every time you take a drink.

It Came From Planet Zit, Victorian Quack Cures, and It’s Frozen

January 23, 2014Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

It has taken on a life of its own…

Thankfully this face crater is not on my face. I have enough problems. Unfortunately it’s on the POMC’s face, which really sucks for him. Nasty. The worst part of it is that if the antibiotics don’t kill it off he might have to go to a plastic surgeon and have it cut out. Joy and rapture- and this for a guy who almost lost it over a simple blood draw. I had my quarterly required blood draw yesterday. Big deal. I really don’t even notice it, but then the phlebotomists at the lab draw blood all day long. It’s simply what they do, and they’re good at it. The POMC, on the other hand, I hate to see what kind of anguish he might experience over a minor surgery that will (while still being minor) have a bit more to it than a simple blood draw.

I had to have a funky growth taken off the side of my head about 15 years ago. I was worried about losing hair over it, but they didn’t even shave that section of my head. The actual surgery was about five minutes, and it wasn’t that bad except for the surgeon was a little rough with the Lidocaine. Getting to surgery was the problem. I was scheduled for 7:30 AM, but didn’t get taken in until almost 2:30 PM. The guy who was scheduled for surgery right before me picked a really inconvenient time to Bite the Big One- as in, he commenced to take the Dirt Nap while he was on the operating table getting an ingrown toenail or something cut out.

Eventually, the Morgue Cart comes for us all.

So I had to wait around while they brought the code team in to try to get him jumpstarted. That was an effort in futility. Once they were satisfied that the guy was completely dead, and there was no revival going to happen, then I had to wait for the medical examiner’s team to come in and take notes and clean up and do the paperwork necessary to send the poor dude down to the morgue. Then the cleaning crew had to come in and hose everything down so it would smell nice and disinfectant-y, presumably in the hope that maybe I wouldn’t get too freaked that some guy just died in there while getting a minor surgical procedure on somewhat of the same scale of what I was having.

Yeah, the scent of shit-and-piss hosed down with disinfectant spray and Clorox doesn’t remind me of my own mortality and impending death. Not at all. ‘Kay… What made the whole experience even more fun is that the surgeon was a big burly guy with a very German name and a rather morbid sense of humor.

I was rather pissed by the time they were finally getting me rolled in to surgery. I had spent most of the day starving, sifting through stacks of distressed, inane and aged periodicals, and enduring such drivel on TV as Montel and other various daytime “Who Be My Baby Daddy” sorts of shows. Even so, in spite of my angst, curiosity got the best of me, and I asked some of the nurses and orderlies what sort of disaster went down, and why it was cause for my very minor surgery to be so delayed. They were more than happy to give me the low down on why my surgery was delayed for seven hours.

I also had to find it funny when the surgeon comes loping in the operating room, syringe full of Lidocaine, saying, “Hey don’t die on me here- that’s what happened to the last guy. It’s bad for business.” At least the surgery was quick, and he didn’t do any damage to the facial nerve the growth was right on top of. I can still eat without drooling and can enunciate when I speak, (these are good things.) Also a good thing, according to the path lab, the growth was benign. It never came back.

Getting a new driver’s license and a registration renewal at the BMV is faster than processing a dead dude to go to the morgue, apparently. Shit happens. Sometimes the timing just sucks.

The BMV: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here!

Of course the weather here in beautiful Central Ohio is absolutely frozen- right now it’s 9º. Of course when it is that cold here, that cold is always accompanied by gale force winds that make it feel like it’s 20° below. Just walking out to the car is being outside too much in this weather.

I wish there actually were something like this device, and that it actually worked.

There is something a bit creepy about wearing batteries on your head. There is also something a bit creepy about having a constant, splitting headache that feels like someone is trying to break out my hard palate from the inside with a crowbar, and to take the same crowbar and poke my right eye clean out of the socket from the inside too.

I’d duct tape some nine-volts to my noggin if that would make this shit go away, damn tootin’.

Unfortunately I think it’s just another reaction to stress and the stupidity that surrounds me.

I don’t think this would do much of anything.

I wish this one would work, but we all know better than that.

Misdirected Feline Aggression, Red Sky in the Morning, and Snot Apocalypse!

January 13, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

There’s an old nautical saying (and why would I know anything about anything nautical when the nearest ocean is 500+ miles away, and I’ve never actually seen the ocean for myself, I will never know) that goes, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight / Red sky in the morning, sailors, take warning.”

Usually sunrises (which are seldom seen in Central Ohio during the winter, because the dismal grey clouds usually obscure them) in Ohio are not this blazingly red, but this morning’s was so out of the ordinary I had to stop and click a pic. Whether it bodes good or ill, I don’t know, but I really don’t buy into funky superstitions. Murphy’s Law does not need a reason for anything to go wrong. If it can go wrong, it generally will, even if the sky is green with brown splotches.

Fanny- sort of the “fat kid” at school.

Cats have an interesting defense mechanism when they are bullied or threatened by a larger or more powerful entity. They lash back at a perfectly innocent and non-involved party rather than to retaliate on the aggressor, hence the phrase, misdirected feline aggression. Fanny displays the best example of this of all of my cats. The irony is that she’s by far the largest of the cats, but the most pathetic at defending herself. Jezebel (all of 5#) takes Fanny (15# the last time I tried to weigh her) down in headlocks frequently, at what point Fanny retaliates (?) by lashing back at one or more of the dogs, who simply give her a dismissive look and carry on whatever business they had been engaged in. The dogs really don’t care how pissed Fanny is or whether or not she hisses at them and swats at them. Fanny is declawed, and my smallest dog, and most frequent recipient of Fanny’s angst, (Lucy) is 40#. Lucy could care less. Clara and Lilo usually just step over her and keep right on going. Apparently the dogs are a good target for Fanny’s rage, because she knows they aren’t going to bother with her.

I never made fun of the fat kids in school, (there were only three of them, because when and where I grew up, nobody could afford to be fat) simply because my fighting skills were just as bad if not worse than theirs, and if worse came to worse, the fat kids could always sit on me. I was tiny and scrawny, which usually motivated me to keep my mouth shut around anyone with any incentive to kick my ass. My oldest sister would kick my ass just for sucking up valuable oxygen, so I never needed an invitation to an ass-kicking. Breathing was more than enough just cause for her to give me a good pounding. She did not like me breathing. Not one bit.

I wish I could score Jerry something stronger than Nyquil.

I don’t understand why, but for him the most minor of head colds or sniffles is a Major Ordeal. The world is coming to an end if he has the snots for a day or two. Perhaps I don’t have much sympathy because I am pretty much always either drowning in snot or very close to it, but the incessant and constant moaning inspired me to come home prepared Friday night: two bottles of the really nasty green Nyquil he likes, an extra bottle of snot pills, and some of those disposable ear plugs so that after I medicated him I could get some bloody sleep without hearing him moan and snot and bitch.

Just as a contrast I remember a time when I had an extremely wicked sinus infection as well as a rip-roaring case of bronchitis. I was a green snot fountain that was reminiscent of the that slime game show that was popular on Nickelodeon in the late 80’s- Super Sloppy Double Dare, if I remember correctly. Only I was emanating more green slime than even that show could- out the nose and, big thick green loogies out the mouth too.

I was working for a particularly psycho cokehead boss at that time, and didn’t dare miss work for something so trivial as showering fountains of snot both uncontrollably and copiously. So I drove the 40 miles to work, only to let fly the world’s most horrendous goopy sneeze that completely coated the entire inside of my ’94 Toyota truck’s windshield.

I knew it was going to be a really shitty day when I was trying to scrape off the snot from the inside of my windshield with an ice scraper so most of it wouldn’t dry on there. As I am trying to scrape and wipe the snot off before it dried, my boss (thankfully not high that morning for a change) saw what I was doing and was horrified. He sent me home and told me not to come back without a script and a doctor’s note.

When I did go to my doctor that afternoon (lucky me) he gave me nine kinds of hell for not coming in sooner- and four or five different scripts for various sprays, pills and rinses. It took a long time to go away, but I only missed one day of work, and that’s because I was sent home.

Women can endure bodily discomfort. Jerry would beg for Vicodin for a butt zit.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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