Moving in Stereo, Noblesse Oblige and the Double Standard

April 24, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

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

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

“Moving in Stereo”- The Cars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April 20, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

April 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron 5 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fanny is a BIG cat.

Jezebel doesn’t care.

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

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

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

April 9, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is so sad, but it’s true!!!

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

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

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

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

April 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

splenetic: adj. irritable; peevish; spiteful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now this calls for the RAZORBA!

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

Or you could get that spray-on NAIR:

Steve-o, your birthday is coming up.

I see a gift idea right here!

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

You’re Probably Doing it Wrong, Screw-Up #432 and “March Madness” is Driving Me Apeshit

March 25, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

‘s

“Isn’t that cuuuute? BUT IT’S WRONG!!!”

It’s good that I had the foresight to DVR some old 2 Stupid Dogs episodes. It would have been better, if I could hear the cartoons and Top Gear episodes over the man-yelpings in the next room. I know Jerry gambles on just about anything anyone is goofy enough to organize a pool on, and he really gets into that brackets noise. He is also a big Ohio State fan, so I’ve been having to endure both the football season and basketball season.

I am so glad he has his own TV.

In a twisted way it’s almost nice that Jerry’s so occupied with basketball. It gives him less time to complain about other things, and that’s almost a relief. It does not, however, keep him from his incessant whining over food.

If I fix something nice and homemade such as chicken-n-noodles:

I even make my own noodles- flour, eggs and a lot of rolling and cutting-

Then Cap’n Happy will decide he wants something salty and processed such as:

Admittedly, they’re tasty, but I’m sure there’s not much nutrition going on here.

The only reason why I have even a passing interest in eating for health is because I’ve pretty much been forced into it. There was a time in my life when the “four food groups” consisted of caffeine, nicotine, sugar and grease, remembering always that alcohol is a sugar. That worked for me for awhile- until my health crashed in my late 20’s-early 30’s- and I had to pay attention or else. I really don’t care what other people eat, and I really have no desire to impose my dietary preferences / restrictions on anyone else, but generally it means I get to fix two meals- mine, and whatever junk food du jour that Jerry wants.

I still miss looking at a créme horn as a mid-morning snack and/or lunch substitute sometimes. I remember days where my eating schedule would look like this:

6 AM: Black coffee, brewed to espresso strength, 32 oz tumbler to get started, another 32 oz to last the rest of the day.

11 AM: Créme horn scored from sales department’s leftover donuts, coffee, coffee, coffee

6 PM: Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries, coffee

6:30-9:30 PM: Wine coolers and/or Bailey’s & coffee, or Kahlua and coffee

Of course, other days would look even more bizarre, like the two months somewhere in the mid-90s that I lived on nothing but Slim-Fast and coffee. My abysmal nutritional habits in those days were supplemented by packs and packs of 120 menthol cigarettes.

Nasty, I know.

So I am the last one on the planet who should be lecturing anyone on health and fitness, except maybe to serve as a warning.

I’ve always been the one to find the exception to prove the rule. I’ve always found the movie Grumpy Old Men to be hilarious. Burgess Meredith played the senior John Gustafson. (See the classic bacon and beer tirade video.) His character reminds me of Jerry- cranky, fussy and of course, enamored of bacon and beer. These are the guys who live to be 120, like the Russians who swill vodka and toke cigars their whole lives.

I can’t help to think this will be Jerry in thirty years- drinking up my life insurance.

Maybe when I die and he gets all that cash (if he doesn’t blow it all on Natties and gambling) he might be able to afford real beer, like maybe Bud Lite.

Someone like me, well, I can watch everything I eat, work out 3-5 times a week, and will likely be taking the Dirt Nap by age 60 no matter what I do. It must be my lovely type-A personality. I’d also speculate that my piss-poor draw in the genetic lottery didn’t help much either.

I’m glad they’re winning, if for no other reason than it makes Jerry happy. But why does a 1 hour game merit a week’s worth of commentary?

And why can’t they use the Oprah channel for all these damned games instead of TruTV? Or some other channel I don’t watch…like one of the 400 ESPNs? I understand that there’s not much good on TV right now because all the jocks and wanna be jocks, and people who will bet on anything are watching basketball, but come on! There is a niche out there called the Non Sports Fan. It’s OK to pander to that niche, alright?

But just as I thought of my Non Sports Fan category of TV viewer, I thought of something non-sports that I loathe even more than 24-7 sports. I absolutely can’t tolerate “Chick TV”: i.e. soap opera type fictional shows that do not involve either gratuitous sex or things catching on fire, anything involving non-talented schmucks trying to perform glorified karaoke, anything fictional and designed to make one cry, and worst of all, “improvement” type shows where some jackwagon from either coast tries to tell me how to dress and/or do interior design.

Green shirt and green tie? That blecchy green? And you’re going to tell me how to dress?

I have the 3 “c” rule: is it comfortable, cheap (as in inexpensive) and does it afford good coverage?

So what kind of programming is left for me?

–Top Gear. But only the BBC one. The one with Jeremy Clarkson.

–World’s Dumbest

-Anything on Investigation Discovery

-Most of the programming on The Military Channel, The History Channel and The Military History Channel.

-Some programming on Comedy Central, i.e. Tosh.0, and South Park

-Most of the programming on Boomerang and Cartoon Network except for Pokèmon and some of that other bizzaro anime stuff.

-Most of Adult Swim, except Family Guy. I just can’t get into that show.

–1000 Ways to Die

If I didn’t pay the big bucks for cable, I would really be going nuts by now.

The Error of the Nanny State, Actions Have Consequences, and Eat Whatever You Want!

March 21, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I love British humor.

I’m glad to see that not everyone has bothered to subscribe to the politically correct movement. I am so tired of the mentality some people have that specifies if that one person has a problem or a special need – or even a booger up his/her ass about something inane, trivial and stupid, that everyone else has to pander to it. For example (and I hear this one a lot) so and so’s kid requires a special diet. That sucks, but should all the other kids be subjected to a diabetic/corn-free/gluten-free/peanut-free and guaranteed to be taste-free diet because one kid has a restriction that can easily be accommodated by that kid’s parents sending him/her with his/her own nutritionally correct meals?

I don’t expect anyone to pander to my dietary requirements. While there is nothing about a diabetic eating strategy that would be harmful to a normal person, that’s not the point. If you want to eat bacon, or cotton candy, a three patty greasy burger, or a 120 sugar-gram latte, that is 100% your business. It’s going to stick to your thighs. I’m not playing food police for anyone. It’s none of my business. I’m the odd one out, therefore it is on me to adjust. When in doubt, I bring my own chow, or better yet, eat meals at home that I prepared for myself so I know exactly what’s in them. Problem solved.

My healthy dinner tastes better than your crappy fast food, but you are perfectly free NOT to eat my healthy dinner.

Go ahead and have your burger. What I eat is my business, what you eat is yours. How simple is that?

Unfortunately there are too many self-righteous weenies out there who believe that if one person gets their undies in a bunch over something, the other 99% who have no problem with their issue have to suffer. A good example of that is the whole hoo-hah over sexual harassment. I grew up in the automotive business. I supervised technicians. I’ve been called everything but a fine upstanding white woman. So what? I’ve told more than one techie to kiss my ass or given one the finger and instructed him to “sit and spin.” Crass jokes are normal in the culture that surrounds automotive. It reduces the stress and shows everyone that you’re human too. I like an off-color joke as well as anyone else (probably more.) Just don’t touch me, and you will live.

Maybe those who think it’s “inappropriate” to joke and have fun are the kinds of people who should automatically receive the male enhancement e-mails. We can start with this guy:

But, Mr. Bloomberg, what about clearing out the gene pool? What about actions having consequences? Can we protect everyone from their own poor decisions?

I’ve noted the wussification of our culture (especially men) and I really can’t stand it. Now there’s a middle school with an “all inclusive” honors banquet. So you get a reward for getting straight D’s and eating dead bugs off the windowsills now? What about the kids who actually take some pride in themselves and actually do what it takes to maintain a 3.5 average or higher?

I’m not saying this because I was an honor student. I was. I freely admit I didn’t have to do much else beyond showing up and actually turning in homework in every class I took with the exceptions of freaking algebra and geometry. (I actually did have to study that shit.)

I’m saying this because in today’s dumbed down schools, if you’re not getting at least a 3.5 (non-weighted) average, you have the intellectual ability of paste, and you don’t deserve an award.

Giving everyone a “special” reward for simply sucking up valuable oxygen is a disincentive for those who actually do study hard and take pride in their academic achievements. And quite frankly, it’s high time parents, schools and society stop worrying about what failure might do to little Johnny or Julie’s fragile little self-esteem. Kids need to learn what to do when they fail: work harder. I know it sounds like a foreign concept, but it’s an idea whose time has come.

And we wonder why unemployment is so high among the young?

Simply Enchanting, Of Rainy Days and Melancholy

March 18, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

There’s something about days like today- cold, heavily overcast, with torrential rain, that makes me wish I could stay home in bed. When I was working out this morning and had done my laps in the pool, I didn’t want to leave the hot tub. For a fleeting moment I thought about how nice it would be to say screw it all and just plain not do anything today- or do what I want to on my own time. Until I remembered all the crap I absolutely have to do today that can’t just be blown off, that is.

This picture reminds me of the times I spent wandering the railroad tracks that went past my grandparents’ house. Technically we kids were not supposed to go anywhere near the railroad tracks, as they were live and in use until they were pulled up some time in 1983 or so, but there were two irresistable lures that made the tracks worth the possibility of encountering an oncoming train, and/or being eaten alive by the local insect life. As far as oncoming trains, one could generally hear and see them in more than sufficient time to get clear. The bugs were another story. The ground around the tracks was swampy and there were plenty of sources of stagnant water for mosquitos to breed in. The open sewage creek that ran a few yards south down in the ditch alongside the tracks could be a source of foul odor in high summer, and it was positively rancid when the water levels in the creek got low and the wind blew in the wrong direction. There was a reason why Dad freaked out when he found us floating paper boats in the creek. We had already figured out we were floating our boats in an open air toilet when we saw the dookie floating in in the creek. Sometimes there was toilet paper and feminine hygiene items too. He didn’t have to warn us “not to touch the water.” Sometimes the dookie made it downstream faster than the boats.

Railroad spikes were worth fifty cents apiece to the right buyer, (if you could find one who didn’t ask questions as to how you got railroad spikes to begin with) which was a small fortune for a kid back then. There were bushels and bushels of black raspberries to be had (in season) and they were well within reach. Even so, while picking berries, one still had to be wary of both poison ivy and bugs.

These were actually worth some money in 1974- don’t know if they’re worth anything today.

Probably the one time I can remember getting a good thrashing from Dad instead of just having to deal with Mom breaking wooden paddles on my ill-fated fanny, was when my sister and I (not the sadistic one) decided to take a big gym bag down to the tracks and fill it up with spikes. Never mind she was six, I was five, and we were both small for our respective ages. We loaded this gym bag down until we could barely carry it with all the spikes in it. It was a good eighth of a mile from the tracks to our house, and in order to get to the house from the tracks we had to wander by the whole neighborhood lugging this thing.

Dad’s friends had spotted us, and he had gotten numerous phone calls before we were even close to getting home. Back then a kid couldn’t cut a popcorn fart without the whole neighborhood knowing about it. He was waiting to tan our hides the minute we dragged the spikes in the door.

Back in the day no one would hesitate to narc on other people’s kids, and there was no mollycoddling – or mercy- when it came time for the punishment. When punishment was administered, the neighbors didn’t hear a thing. If nothing was broken or bleeding and they couldn’t discern any flaming injuries when your parents were done with you, they figured justice had been served and that was the end of it.

We generally got away with the raspberries, though.

The raspberries went when the railroad pulled up the tracks. It seems as if all the weeds and garbage have come back to over grow the track bed, but the last time I went wandering where the tracks used to be it was rather frightening even in broad daylight. I spotted plenty of trash, used syringes (not the ones used for insulin, either,) used condoms, had a near-death encounter with some redneck’s pit bull, and all sorts of nastiness, but no berry bushes.

I don’t like going to where my grandparents used to live. It’s creepy knowing there are strange people living in their house. It’s never been a particularly nice neighborhood (although when the tracks were pulled up, the city tiled over the sewage creek, which was a bit of an improvement) but it went from ‘po folks to dangerous folks.

I can’t fault anyone for having dogs, but when I bring Clara with me (partially because she likes to explore, and partially for protection) I don’t need someone’s pit bull coming at her as if it were going to tear out her throat. Clara is formidable (she’s half Malinois, after all) but if a pit bull really wanted to get aggressive with Clara it would be ugly, and it would break my heart to see either her or another dog injured unnecessarily. One of the most important tasks of a dog owner is to teach good socialization skills and appropriate behavior with other dogs. Protection breeds are more prone to dog-aggression than most, so I try to keep all my dogs’ encounters with other dogs as positive ones. Clara is particularly well mannered with other dogs and I want to keep her that way. Should she have a bad encounter with another dog, it would be harmful to her physical well-being as well as her mindset toward other dogs.

I have mulled over the possibility of getting a pittie- though I am more familiar with the herding breed mentality.

I don’t have a problem with pit bulls- or any other dog breed- when the dog is handled responsibly. A well trained and properly socialized pittie can be a fantastic, gentle, intelligent dog, but even an ankle biter can be dangerous if it’s ill-treated and improperly trained. A pit bull can be deadly in the wrong hands, just as a GSD, Malinois, Doberman, Rottie, and just about any other breed, etc. can be as well. No dog is born aggressive or dangerous. He / she has to be made that way.

Today I’m just trying to keep my mind off the rain and the funk and the dreariness.

Then I remember the damned basketball tournament is going to be all over TruTV, and I hope and pray I DVRd a whole lot of episodes of Top Gear and the bizarre 90’s cartoons I love so well. Mmm, three middle aged Brits playing with cars, Cow and Chicken and 2 Stupid Dogs. I guess that will have to be intellectual enough for me.

At Least It Wasn’t Detroit, and the Art of the Impromptu Road Trip

March 11, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I enjoy the rare and tasty privilege of an impromptu road trip, but I’ve not gotten to take one on my own terms for a long time. This was not a trip I took on my own terms. I can’t think of anyone who says to him or herself, “Gee, I’d like to go up to Lansing, MI for shits and grins.” It’s not abysmal as Detroit or Cleveland, but it’s not what I would call a tourist destination either. There’s enough ghettos in Columbus without having to drive 270 miles one way to visit another one. Even so, I can look a little bit on the bright side. There is one memorable thing about the mid-Michigan area I like well enough that I’d love to see it come to central Ohio.

Normally I enjoy trying mom & pop local places when I travel, as I’m pretty open minded about food, but Steve-o can be very hard to please and quite difficult about food. Even so, he grew a pair on the way back and took my suggestion to try a local sub chain called Big John’s. The steak, cheese and mushroom (#4) sub is to die for. If you go, be sure to try the red sauce. Even Steve-o enjoyed his sandwich- and it’s rare to get a good food review from a guy who is very fussy about food and will seldom eat at any restaurant other than Taco Bell.

Now THIS is a sandwich!

As I said earlier, awesome steak subs aside, I would still have to have a compelling reason to go anywhere in Michigan. Michigan is NOT a vacation destination, IMO, except for the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, and even then one should remember you have to go through Detroit to get to Dearborn, and you should also remember that anywhere in that area apart from being directly on the museum grounds is highly, highly unsafe. You couldn’t pay me enough money to be anywhere near Detroit at night, even though an Ohio CCW is also valid in Michigan. I only have five rounds.

I don’t see it happening anytime soon, but should I ever have to end up in Lansing again for any reason, I will be sure to remember Big John’s. I will try to forget that Dad and Steve-o and Spencer ended up staying in yet another roach motel, and that half of the city looks like a war zone. Perhaps I didn’t see the right part of the city. I know there are neighborhoods right here in Columbus that look almost as bad. If all I saw in Columbus was the near east side I’d think it was a hole too.

Plenty of law enforcement are always down in this hizzy!

Saturday night I get a very late call (10:30 PM, and yes, that’s late for me to be getting phone calls) and wouldn’t have bothered to answer it except for it was Steve-o and he knows better than to wake me up at night unless either a.) someone’s on the way to the ER, b.) someone’s dead, or c.) he has a catastrophic need that if unaddressed will lead to a. or b.

Now I know why I was so wigged out about Dad taking either one of their aged and increasingly unreliable vans to NC last summer, and I’d managed to talk him into letting me drive them down there.

The oil pressure sending unit failed on the van. GM vehicles are rather notorious for this- especially the 3.4 V6, and any vehicle with 200K (especially an aging GM van) on it is pretty much on borrowed time to begin with. That van is at the point where I would be surprised if it didn’t have a catastrophic failure on any road trip of more than 20 miles or so.

When an OPS fails, it’s almost always the high pressure unit, which on a 3.4 is only accessible with the vehicle on a rack, and then only after the starter’s been removed. Pretty. The sensor itself comes apart, and then suddenly the vehicle’s spewing oil all over the engine compartment- at 60 PSI. Worse yet, there’s no way to know when one of these is going to fail. Age can be a factor, but even so, I’ve seen these rude dudes fail on vehicles with less than 100 miles on them.

Two very bad things can happen if one continues to drive a vehicle with a failed OPS. One of course, is that Al Gore and the greenies aren’t going to be happy with you, because you’re blowing motor oil all over God’s creation, including your engine compartment, windshield, mirrors, back glass and all over the ten cars behind you. The other is that if the oil pressure drops too low (and it inevitably will, since you’re blowing oil out the side of the engine) the lifters will fail to be lubricated and the valves will start seizing up which can lead to the cylinder head warping and/or head gasket failure. That’s bad, but if the oil completely runs out, the crankshaft will no longer be lubricated, which will cause the crank to overheat and seize, potentially blowing a connecting rod through the engine block, which means there is no fixing that- save for replacing the entire engine assembly.

Cliff’s notes version for the non-motorhead: If you smell oil or see it spattering on your windshield, shut it off. NOW. Call AAA. You are very likely screwed. Especially if you didn’t shut it off right away.

Fortunately the boys knew exactly what was happening. They knew that if they ran it out of oil they were done. Even more fortunately, it happened about a mile from the hotel where they were staying.

The only thing about the hotel was it wasn’t terribly sanitary. Poor Spencer had brought his swim trunks, but the pool wasn’t clean enough for him. Spencer is not prissy, so I am assuming this pool was pretty gross.

An indoor pool is a beautiful thing- if it’s clean.

They had a place to stay the night, but the shower was filthy, the bed sheets looked as if they might have been changed sometime when Jimmy Carter was president, and someone had used the roof outside the window as a party patio. The window screen was broken and there were several empty liquor bottles standing on the roof when they got there.

Even better, for Dad, they found a Firestone across from the hotel who managed to work them in to get the sensor changed out so he could get to the swap meet they were going to, and so they could get back home. I took Steve-o back home early so I would be sure he would be back in time to go to work. The van managed to make it back with Dad and Spencer, although they’ve got some serious powerwashing to do.

Maybe the next time I go on a road trip I’ll get to go somewhere fun, but for going somewhere not particularly fun, it wasn’t a bad trip. It got me out of the house and to somewhere different, and that’s saying something.

Better Living Through Technology and Chemistry, and Disturbing Thoughts

March 5, 2013Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

No one is more anti-smoking than an ex-smoker.

Even though back in the day I smoked the cowboy killers, (yes, I chain smoked the cowboy killers) today I find few of other people’s habits more annoying. The exception to that would be Jerry’s uncanny ability to spot either puke or shit combined with his complete unwillingness to actually clean up said puke, shit or other noxious mess.

On one hand, since cigarettes are legal and the government makes money on them, people should be allowed to smoke up- anywhere and everywhere- should they so desire. On the other, I am not a fan of having my airspace polluted by some jackwagon’s cig smoke.

I know it’s too complicated for Jerry. But there may be hope for others.

The above illustration doesn’t mention the damned cellophanes, but then again most smokers don’t just toss the foil and cellophane on the floor to clog up the vacuum cleaner, either. No matter how you scour the floor for cellophanes, there’s at least one that avoids detection and ends up clogging the vacuum cleaner, which begs one question and one statement.

1. What’s the bloody point of having a vacuum cleaner if you have to pick up half the shit on the floor before you vacuum so it doesn’t clog the machine?

2. Jerry was raised by wolves, which is why there is unauthorized detritus on the floor that shouldn’t be there to begin with. I should be grateful he knows how to wipe his ass.

I think some of the really weird Victorian artwork actually is drug-inspired. I mean, this dude was even impaired in his fashion choices. Elton John wouldn’t even wear this ensemble. When alcohol, opium and God only knows what else were readily available in just about every patent medicine in existence, I’m sure there were plenty of guys who wore bad clothes and thought they were riding around on (stoned) giant white pigeons.

I’m thinking duct tape would have kept this poor dead kid’s head up for the pic.

I’m assuming the little girl in the very front of this pic is dead by the vacuous stare and the way her head is flopped over. However, her mother is hanging on to her hair in a manner that would make an old-time Catholic mother proud. The expression on the mother’s face seems to be one of those “You will sit still dammit,” expressions rather than a mournful pose. Perhaps the two boys in the background were getting on her nerves, or maybe she was peeved because the dead one kept on flopping over. Maybe she grabbed the dead kid by the hair just to keep her steady in one place.

I have to wonder how many child deaths buried in the overwhelmingly high infant mortality rate of the Victorian era were actually inflicted by the mothers?

It would be easy enough to cover up one’s crime. Lots of kids died, and died suddenly from everything from typhoid to a good old fashioned case of the runs. An autopsy of that time – should anyone insist one be conducted- probably wouldn’t reveal poisoning or suffocation.

Just put it in their drink.

emetic:

adjective

1.causing vomiting, as a medicinal substance.

noun

2.an emetic medicine or agent.

I can think of a lot of things that have emetic qualities:

Obama. Just thinking about him and his illegal squatting in the White House makes me want to puke.

Exposed hairy butt cracks. Wrong on many levels, and tacky on either male or female.

I don’t throw up easily, which in this world is probably a good thing.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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