assorted rants

things that piss me off

Stuck in a Retro Funk, Losing My Mind, and Bad Responses to Stress

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Suffice to say my life is insane.

Back in the day I would be using some coping strategies that unfortunately are forbidden to me in my cougardom.   My health and the vast array of meds that I have to take simply to remain breathing and above ground have pretty much made it impossible for me to: work until I fall over, and then drink until I forget everything.  My advanced age, sense of morality, aversion to guilt, general introversion, and fear of divers social diseases and/or emotional entanglements prevents me from seeking out the attentions of “friends with benefits,” so casual sex with near strangers is pretty much out as a stress reliever too.   What worked when I was 25 (and even what I wish would have worked when I was 25, i.e. casual sex, hell- even formal sex would be an improvement over none) will not work now, unless I want to wake up dead.  I’ve watched far too many episodes of Dr G and /or 1000 Ways to Die.  Although I know death is inevitable, and might even be preferable to some situations I’ve lived through, I don’t want to earn a Darwin Award in the process of dying.

I mean, who really wants a epitaph that says:

Here lies a feisty old tart/Who messed around with all the old farts/She partied and drank, the nasty old skank/Till the excitement exploded her heart

My idea of excitement is when I put my old Journey videos in the DVD player so I can drool over 30 year old visuals of Steve Perry.   That’s about all I can take.

Then again, the more I think about it,  it might not be too bad to come and go at the same time, except it may be a bit morbid for the other party involved.  I mean, what would the surviving partner do?  Call the squad or cut out the middle man and call the morgue directly? 

Reagan would have had enough sense to avoid such a situation, so that appears to be a good response.  I could also ask the Magic 8 Ball, whose response to the question, “Should I find myself a fine young boy toy?,” is “Outlook Not So Good.”

No shit.  If you’re going to go fishing, you have to have the appropriate bait.  I am genuinely afraid of what my sorry carcass would reel in.

Usually I don’t resort to gratituous self pity as a defense mechanism, but I’ve been sort of down lately.  Being busier than hell usually helps because it keeps my mind occupied and out of mischief for the most part, but the reality remains the same.

There are a few things, as usual, weighing on my mind that are dragging me down.

1. My illustrious offspring has spawned.  The spawning was NOT planned.  This is scary on many levels, especially knowing that he likely carries a boatload of dormant bad genes- just from my side of the family.   I shudder to speculate on the scary things that could be lying dormant from the sperm donor’s family. The poor child has the potential for some very scary looks, including red hair, extremely blond hair, curly hair, extreme shortness, and troll-like proportions to name a few.  The fact that he is neither married to the baby mama or gainfully employed is even more frightening.  The baby is due in late February/early March- the suckiest time of year to have a birthday.   No one will remember it, and even if they do, everyone’s still broke from Christmas, so the poor child will get shitty birthday presents if he/she gets any at all.  I know.  My birthday is 2-26.  One year all I got was a box of Whoppers and a quarter to spend in the vending machine at the Revco.  Most years everyone just forgets.

2. This means I’m officially a grandmother- not like with Jerry’s grandkids who everyone knows are way too old to actually be my grandkids.  I don’t care if they call me Grandma or Hey You Funky Lady- I don’t have a problem treating them like grandkids.  They’re remarkably normal kids, and the good part is that at the end of the day they go home, but most people can figure out that it’s highly unlikely that a 42 year old would actually have a thirteen year old grandson.  His daughter is 30.   I was lucky to have gotten busy the few times in my life that I’ve had the opportunity.  I sure as hell wasn’t getting any action when I was 12 or younger.  With Steve-o everyone can work out the logistics.  Your mother has had sex four times in the past 25 years – Guess which occasion resulted in spawning you?  This means if DNA proves the child to be his…I certainly can’t deny it.

 

 

Jerry of course has his own (highly annoying) responses to stress, i.e., seeing downing a 12 pack of Natties as a physical challenge and then getting hyper (normal people pass out, but no such luck) and trying to “clean.”  The problem with Jerry’s cleaning rampages is that they are uncannily like Mom’s manic cleaning rages of yesteryear.  I do not find this late night cleaning compulsion to be nostalgic in any sort of positive way.  I loathed being awakened to scrub the toilet in the middle of the night as a child, and I have no desire as a cougar-aged woman to unclog the dog hair from the vacuum cleaner at 9PM.  Just because Jerry thinks that housecleaning at bedtime is an appropriate and satisfying activity when I’ve been awake and busy since 4AM does not mean that my mind and/or body are going to agree with that.  He is fortunate I didn’t rip his face off, but I’ve either mellowed out in my cougardom or I was just too tired to put up much of a fight.  Option two is most likely.  Arguing with a drunk is just about as effective as nailing Jello to a tree anyway.

Note to self: remember to vacuum when he’s either sober or not home so he doesn’t attempt to use it and clog it up with those damned cigarette pack cellophanes he leaves all over creation.

My class reunion dinner is fast approaching, and I’ve already paid for it, so I am curious to see who shows up.  I sense a bit of nostalgia- and a desire to see a few old acquaintances- but an even more overwhelming sense of “stop and gawk,” which is the phenomenon here in beautiful Central Ohio that occurs when there’s a car wreck on the freeway. Oncoming traffic slows up simply because everyone wants to stop and gawk.   You don’t really want to look, but you really want to look.   I hope that for $30 it will be a nice dinner, anyway.  It will be an excuse to get out for a bit anyway.

 

 

Spare me from the ’80’s hair!

BIG TRUCK, LITTLE PENIS- and if I had a Big Dick, I Wouldn’t Need this Corvette

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“Now all they need is one (non magnetic, of course) for Corvette owners. Something to the effect of, “If I Had a Big Dick I Wouldn’t Need This Corvette”
These giant magnetic bumper stickers are ideal pranks to pull on truck owners.
I worked in Chevy dealerships, and very quickly learned to loathe Corvette owners.  Truck guys- even the ones with the jacked up and modified monstrosities- were never as obnoxious as Corvette owners.  I never encountered a group of automotive enthusiasts who are both cheap and incredibly fussy at the same time.  The attitude goes like this, “I want it perfect, I want it NOW, and what’s my discount?”
When I had the authority to set the Corvette owners’ “discount,” it was usually something like list + 50, which means regular retail plus 50% of regular retail.  So if list price was $100, I would quote them $150.  They got a pretty hefty surcharge for being a royal pompous pain in my ass.
Fussy owners in the automotive fancy are nothing new.  I have dealt with truck owners (usually not too terrible) including Land Cruiser enthusiasts, who, while fussy, were some of my favorites to deal with.  The major difference between Land Cruiser owners and Corvette owners is that a Land Cruiser owner wants it perfect and wants it NOW, AND is willing to pay for “perfect” and “NOW.”  I always loved Land Cruiser owners when I worked in Toyota dealerships.  They’re fussy and demanding, yes, but they don’t mind paying for the privilege.
I have to state that yes, there are guys who compensate for their tiny johnsons with excessive horsepower.  I’ve seen it, and it isn’t pretty.  I really could care less how big your truck is if you’re the poster child for ED,and/or if you are a tightwad, and/or your hair is held on with double faced tape.  Show me a guy who drives a Prius and isn’t self conscious about it, and he’s probably quite comfortable in his masculinity.  Then again, so are the lesbians who don’t shave their legs and have stopped using soap.  They are really comfortable in their truckers’ wallets and their masculinity.  That’s a pretty scary crowd too, especially when the technicians make commentary on the pit hair of the one wearing the tank top.  I didn’t need to know that “she”? has longer pit hair than all three technicians combined.  TMI.  Acck.  Excessive body hair is bad enough on men.  It’s positively revolting on women.
 

I Thought I’d Have a Bit More Time, and Other Famous Last Thoughts

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I knew it would happen eventually.  I hoped for more time, not so much for me, but for the illustrious POMC to finish school and to already be gainfully employed and independent from the parental units before informing me that I am soon to be a grandmother.  Really.

I also hoped that he would be married to the baby mama at that point too, but at least he didn’t fertilize either Jezebel or Psycho Chick (his two previous girlfriends) and he’s been in a fairly stable relationship with the baby mama.

Marriage and employment aside, this potential train wreck could be a lot worse.

I can’t say that I’m angry.  I’m not angry.  I’ve been there.  Steve-o wasn’t planned either.  Life happens and life is messy with all the details and you have to work your way through.  Having a child at age 20 (and she’s 18 for heaven’s sake) is no easy endeavor.  Far be it from me to add fuel to the fire and make a hard situation even more difficult.  Hearing my critique and commentary isn’t going to make anything better. No sense in shutting the barn door once the horse is already out.  Steve-o at least wants to be a man and be a dad to his child- and I will do whatever I can to back him up with that.  He’s seen too many of his friends in situations where their babies’ mothers don’t want them around and one thing Steve-o does want is for his kid to have a mom and a dad and for him to actively participate in his family’s life.  I hope he means what he says, and I think he does.  After all, his sperm donor wasn’t particularly interested in him.  He knows what it’s like.  The thought of his own child having a dad who doesn’t care is particularly repulsive to him- as it should be.

Dad is pissed.  Dad will be pissed for a few more days until he finally realizes the futility of attempting to shut the barn door and then he will come around.  His desire to see and have contact with his first great-grandchild will win out.   I do think the whole parenting dimension will make it more challenging for Steve-o to finish school and make something of himself, but it will no means be impossible.  Steve-o does have an incredible talent for doing what he needs to do when he really wants to do it.  Will he care enough about his offspring to do so?  Only time will tell, but he certainly doesn’t need my cynicism and despondency to get in his way.

I was sort of surprised at Mom’s reaction.  She wasn’t thrilled, but she wasn’t nearly as pissy as Dad.   I know she’s pissed at Steve-o for not keeping his business in his pants, but I don’t think she’s completely disappointed at the prospect of a new baby.  Life is life and things happen for a reason.  Some people try and try to conceive and can’t- or some people, like me, could only have one child.

Of course, in my elderly cougardom the only thing keeping me from rehydration via party keg is that alcohol wreaks havoc with my blood sugar and with my blood pressure meds.  I am thankful in a dark sort of way that I am not going to have to endure all the pregnancy discomforts- a sort of  “better thee than me” scenario.  I already have vintage stretch marks and a lovely c-section scar (recently accompanied by its parallel hysterectomy scar)  that haven’t gone anywhere in 20+ years.  Even if I still had the necessary equipment I am way too old for that noise.  I am going to refrain from sharing the Murphy’s Law as it Pertains to the Childbirth from Hell story with them.  Some things are better left unshared, especially with a very young couple that has just been enlightened as to the existence of a third party.

I’ll have to be the poor sucker out there scouting about for baby clothes and other stuff they’re going to need.  At least I am not the one having to go through the endless succession of prenatal visits, weight gain, having to pee every ten minutes, and of course, the Birth Experience which she is going to want to be heavily medicated for, especially if their baby weighs almost 10# like Steve-o did.  She will want to rip off his nuts.

Lord have mercy.  They are going to need it.

 

 

Support Bras and Sensible Shoes, an Air of Pervasive Misanthropy- with a Metallica Soundtrack

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As much as I try to fight it, I am becoming my mother, at least in appearance.  As much as I wish I could look like Demi Moore, on a good day I might pass for a 55 year old mutant troll.   I’ve had more than one person ask me if I was my mother’s sister.  Never mind that I’m 42, and Mom is 22 years older than me.  I know I’ve been rode hard and put away wet throughout this adventure of life, but I sort of wish I might have aged just a little bit better.  The years have not been kind.

Long ago I became resigned to the fact that it’s in my best interest to dress for comfort,  not for speed.  For those of us with ample chests, (38D) bra shopping consists of two goals- find a bra that will hold the puppies firmly and comfortably without fail, even when bending over, AND that doesn’t leave divots in one’s shoulders.  These bras are practical but not generally pretty.  Victoria’s Secret is that they don’t have bras that meet this criteria.   I spent way too many years in my vanity dealing with scratchy underwire bras that left divots in my shoulders and would allow the puppies to fly out every time I bent over.  These days I like the heavy duty beauty hold ’em up in a hurricane type bras- the kind my grandmother (also endowed with the 38Ds) preferred. She was a lingerie buyer for a department store and could at least could get good deals on the stuff.  I either have to wait for the clearance sales- or pay retail, which I am loathe to do for anything.  I hate to pay retail.

The shoe reality is harder for me to deal with.  I used to wear at least a three inch heel (if not a five inch stiletto) every freaking day, working and standing on concrete and it never bothered me.  Now it almost has to be a special occasion for me to wear a two inch wedge.  I’m still only 5’4″, provided I’ve not shrunk with age, so I still need the height boost.  It’s not as if I have a hard to fit foot- I wear a 7B and the only issue I ever encounter with shoes is that I have a high instep.  Boots and certain over-the-instep styles can be a bit of a challenge, but generally if the shoe is true to size I’m good to go.  I order shoes online quite often with no difficulty. I don’t have as big a problem with trying on shoes in public as I do with clothes (I never, ever, ever disrobe for the perverts charged with monitoring public fitting rooms) but I’d still rather buy my shoes online.  It saves me time and the aggravation of cavorting around amidst the unwashed hordes.

I just ordered some five inch platform sandals which I am going to wear come hell or high water (a good fashion choice in high water, heh-heh) because I paid good money for them, and because sometimes it’s fun to mess with Dad.  If I wear more than a two inch heel, I’m taller than him.

For daily wear, though, I find myself gravitating less toward five inch platforms and more toward Crocs sandals or Skechers Toners.  I don’t have to wear dress clothes to work. We don’t see customers face to face, so our dress code can be summed up as, “just as long as the nasty bits are covered.”  Since I don’t have to wear dress clothes,  I like the “toning shoes.”  I figure if I have to walk anyway, might as well get as much exercise as I can with each step.  This way I am more motivated to walk so I can get more stealth exercise. I am not much for doing a whole lot of walking in heels. 

I’m sure that a casual observer would think it strange that the matronly looking old cougar driving a car with hot pink Hello Kitty stickers all over it, who looks like someone’s grandma, is usually jamming to assorted hard rock and heavy metal.  I got a really bizarre look the other day from some teen punks when I had Nirvana’s “Heart-Shaped Box” cranked up full blast on the HK Yaris’ stereo when I pulled in to park in the Kroger’s parking lot.   Just because I’m old does not mean I am resigned to Lawrence Welk, Barbra Streisand (accckkkk!) and elevator music.  My only regret is that I wasn’t listening to something a bit more edgy, such as Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel the Noise,” or Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train.”

I’m every bit the headbanger I was back in the day even though I (sadly) sold the Gibson Victory Artist (yes, they are legendary, and yes I actually had one) and the Marshall full stack years ago.  I enjoyed singing and playing bass, but the reality is that very few people ever get to a place where they can support themselves by playing music.  Sometimes practical concerns have to win out, such as being gainfully employed and supporting oneself, but it was fun while it lasted.  I was a good player and a good singer, but I have to admit I don’t have the image.  Nobody cares how well you play or sing if you don’t have the stage presence.  Audiences want you to give ’em something to look at, and I’ve never been much to look at.  Maybe that’s why most female musicians who have done well for themselves have done it on their looks and not necessarily on their talent.  There’s a lot of very nice looking but horribly mediocre female singers out there who are making the big bucks.  You can be a very good singer, but look like a mutant troll- and you end up selling automotive parts. 

1982 Gibson Victory Artist…drooolll… mine looked exactly like this, with the sunburst pattern and everything.   I bought mine ever so slightly used (almost pristine) for $800 back in 1985 which was an unheard of sum to pay for an instrument, especially when considering my first car- yes it was a POS but it ran- was only $400.  Today you would not be able to touch a functional Victory Artist- in which the active EQ and pickups work as they should- for under $1000.   Awesome instrument except for one minor detail- it was in no way light on the shoulders. Gibson stopped making them in 1986, probably because they were incredibly expensive for the day, ($2000 for a new Victory Artist with all the toys, in 1985) and Gibson wasn’t exactly making money in the dismal economic times of the early ’80’s selling high line instruments.  One could buy a Washburn bass that was decent and almost as effortless to play, for less than half the price- but Gibson’s craftsmanship is legendary.  If I were into vintage instruments, and/or if I seriously wanted to start playing bass again, I would have to scrounge me another one- but (sad as it sounds) playing bass isn’t terribly high on my list of things I really need to do right now.  Playing an instrument well takes a lot of time and practice, and the equipment needed to play is not inexpensive.  Finding others interested in forming a band and getting any kind of venues in which to play would also be a formidable task . More importantly, I seriously wonder if my wrists and fingers could tolerate it, especially considering all the typing I have to do in the course of a day.  When I sold the Artist in 1994 I was at a point where I could only play comfortably for 15-20 minutes at a time and really had to push it to make it through a two hour set.  What’s the point of playing music if it’s painful?  I have arthritis in virtually every part of my body that has cartilage in it, thanks to a childhood bout of rheumatic fever- the gift that keeps on destroying- and a young adulthood of taking everything just a little too far.  My hands and wrists are in bad enough shape already without bothering to put all that extra stress on them.

Oh, well.  I like being comfortably obscure from the safety of my ivory tower, watching the wheels go around when I can stay still long enough, and entertaining myself by watching the ongoing devolution of humanity.

“For Whom the Bell Tolls” indeed.

 It’s oddly comforting to know that all the rock/metal artists I admire are older than me.

Must-See Sights in Fly-Over Country, and Things We’d Rather Not See

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Ah, the joy of contrasts.  I absolutely love the show that’s been on Science Channel called An Idiot Abroad.  For those not familiar with it, the show features the adventures of Karl Pilkington, as his “friends” Ricky Gervais and Steve Merchant send him to see the Seven Wonders of the World.  I enjoy British humor anyway, but to see this poor guy traipsing about some of the more tourist un-friendly parts of the third world was absolutely priceless.  The Chinese toilet scene was hilarious.  I really have to wonder, without toilet paper, how in the heck do you keep from fudging your undies?  And in lieu of undies- for the sake of argument  (let’s say they all go commando), fudging your drawers?  Even the most crude backwood cracker rednecks wipe.

It makes me wonder what kind of fun an American living in fly-over country could have road tripping with some poor funky looking Brit.  Just imagine taking Karl on a road trip down in the hollers of WV, or on an excursion to a tractor pull, NASCAR race, or even to the Mobile Home Capital of the Midwest- Marengo, OH.  I could show him urban blight,  rural blight, authentic American cracker rednecks complete with full body tattoos and rebel flags on their trucks, weeds growing out of a swimming pool, and the Tetanus Farm, all in the same day.

I bet foreigners watch American TV and movies and think the whole country is like either New York or Los Angeles- that the women all look like Paris Hilton and the dudes all look like Charlie Sheen.  The pic of Charlie Sheen is substantially larger here, because in my humble, heterosexual female opinion, he’s hotter simply because he’s a dude.  I’m here to tell you, sweetheart, that the Left Coasts are absolutely not representative of all things Yankee.  Fly-over country is different.   Much different.  Foreigners seldom see either the Midwest or the South, which are two regions of the country that have a distinctly defiant and bold demeanor, not at all resembling the politically correct and effete atmosphere you experience on the coasts.  It’s a shame no one really bothers to explore the vast expanses of fly-over country.  Do you think we’re boring or we’re lacking freak factor?  Believe me, I can show you lots of freaky stuff, just on the Ohio State campus.

Within 50 miles of Whine Country alone I can think of some prime locations for freak watching:

Walmart in Newark – Discover why there is such a thing as “Size 20 Women’s Underwear,” and also why there are some very squashed, mousy little dudes.  You could fit five or six Paris Hiltons into one leg hole of those “briefs,” believe that. I bought a pair of these to use as a car cover for my Yaris, but they were too big.

Downtown Columbus during “Gay Pride” weekend is quite a spectacle, especially the “Tranny Parade” (“Tranny” as used here, is NOT an automotive term!)

Walmart in Marion on the first day of the month, or whatever day the Welfare checks come out- (steel toed shoes and Febreze recommended.) The fat-chick-on-a-scooter thing always amazed me.  If she were motivated to walk to begin with,  she would never would have gotten fat enough to have needed the scooter, no?

Believe me, if you want a freak show, just open the door and start gawking.  I can think of enough freaky footage right here in Central Ohio to keep foreigners amused for weeks.

I would love to be Karl’s (or some other unfortunate English-speaking foreigner’s) tour guide to the Midwest and the South.  It could be a lot of fun.

All I can suggest is never drink the local water when you travel unless it has been filtered, brewed or boiled.   I get Montezuma’s Revenge drinking pretty much any locality’s unfiltered tap water outside of Franklin County.  If in doubt go for a brewed beverage (tea or coffee) or better yet a prepackaged beverage such as Diet Dr. Pepper or Diet Rockstar.

It’s no crime to be large.  I freely admit, while I have not attained the heft or girth of livestock, I am proportioned like a mutant troll.  I have short meaty arms, big meaty man-hands, and my abdominal area resembles a road map to Atlanta.  Coverage is the key.  When you are large or badly proportioned, proper use of clothing for coverage purposes creates a more tolerable aesthetic.

Cover up your bad self!

I don’t mean “wear a burqa” (unless your religious views dictate so.)  It is good for those of us with less than optimum physiques to refrain from displaying those problem areas.  Ladies with meaty arms should not run about in sleeveless shirts, for instance.

This is a fashion don’t.  And if the pink thing is supposed to be a bra, it’s way too small.  No one wants to see your backfat- not out in the open or all bunched up making muffin mountains in all the wrong places under your shirt.

Here’s an example of a large (not necessarily “fat” but certainly no Calista Flockhart) lady dressing appropriately.  Her meaty arms are generously covered with sleeves.  Her skirt is long enough to conceal any cottage cheese or thunder thighs.  Yet she is not so covered-up she looks like she’s running about in a muu-muu or a burqa.

I like that dress.

I like the idea of foreign tourism in all those places tourists don’t normally go even better.  Come on down and experience the wonders of the G&R Bar, (home of the world’s most awesome fried bologna sandwich) the Ohio State Fair, and the Marion Popcorn Festival (it’s OK, they bring in extra cops.)  Go on to West Virginia and experience white-water rafting, interesting redneck accents, and harrowing drives on mountain Interstates named after (and largely pork-barrel funded by) the late Senator Robert C. Byrd.

12 Lbs., No Nuts, Likes to Hump Old Black Cats, Please Give Me a Home…

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I hate getting into all the drama involved with Jerry’s family.  Since Monday night I’ve been taking care of my mother-in-law’s dog, a seven year old male Shih-Tsu with one brown eye and one blue one, who seems to have a thing for interspecies love.  Either that, or the female dogs in the house are just a tad bit too tall for the logistics to work out for him.  Perhaps it’s  “any port in a storm.”   I feel sorry for the poor little guy.   I mean, if I had to abide by truth in advertising I’d have to describe him as follows:

12 lbs., no nuts, one blue eye, one brown eye, likes to dance for food, and hump small, old black cats.

He’s lived with my mother-in-law for the past two years, but now my father-in-law (aka: Taco Tuesday, because he will only go to Taco Bell on Tuesday – when they have the 59 cent per taco special for senior citizens) doesn’t want to take care of the dog any more.  She can’t because she’s confined to a wheelchair, which completely sucks- both for her, and the poor dog.

I have to wonder about the logic of offering discounts on tacos to old people who wear dentures, and whose sensitive GI tracts shouldn’t be overwhelmed with Mexican food to begin with, but Dad’s 65, wears dentures, and snarfs down Mexican food like it’s going out of style, so perhaps there is more to the geezer-Mexican food connection than I understand.   Maybe the old geezers prize the ability to fart copious green clouds of death-gas, or maybe that’s how they find their way back home.  Just follow the noxious green cloud.

In all fairness, in most regards, the dog is not a bad little guy. Unlike the Jack Russell who stayed with us for a couple of days (thank God we found him a home with the quickness!) and almost drove Clara and me insane, he’s pretty mellow for an ankle-biter.  He’s very pleasant and is good about going out with the other dogs and he gets into the routine fairly well.  I gave him a bath last night, which he acted like he enjoyed.    I am generally not terribly fond of ankle-biters (we have large dogs- large female dogs- for a reason) but for being both an ankle biter and a male, he’s actually pretty sweet, except for occasionally humping poor Isabel. Isabel is our thirteen year old, five-pound black cat.  Isabel is extremely laid back and not usually phased by dogs, at least when they’re not humping her.  So for the sake of poor Isabel’s sanity, I’d like to find him a little more suitable situation.

That’s one reason why I prefer female dogs- they generally don’t hump things.  Female dogs tend to be generally smarter, a bit healthier, and live longer than their male counterparts.  I also prefer large dogs because not too many people will screw with you when you are with a large dog, even if the large dog in question is harmless.  Sheena is a good example of a large dog who is completely harmless- uncoordinated, doesn’t know a stranger, and is nearly toothless anyway- but from a distance she looks intimidating.  The kids in the drunk-and-domestic apartments on the other side of the body shop think Sheena’s a wolf, and I am not going to do or say anything to stop that urban legend.  Clara, while not easily confused with a wolf, is also blessed with a formidable presence, and she is the one they need to watch out for.  Her coordination is perfect, as are her lovely complement of 42 teeth, she gives no warning, and she does not miss anything.

Sheena (below)- not a wolf- and 100% harmless.

Clara (below)- also not a wolf, but definitely worthy of her Belgian Malinois heritage.

I don’t encourage my dogs to be aggressive, but I will not interfere with their natural prey drive and instincts to defend their pack and territory.   In other words, if you jump the fence, the dogs will do what comes naturally.  Clara will go for your jugular, Lilo will go for your ankles, Sheena will stand aside and woof as she watches them, and Uno (the little male Shih-Tsu) if we fail to find a home for him, will probably lift his tiny little leg and pee on you.

Lilo (below) – definitely not a wolf- and in spite of her little diva tendencies, is quite the ambush hunter.

Speaking of Sheena, her surgery was successful, although I still don’t know how invasive it had to be, or what she’s going to look like when I pick her up tonight.  It will probably be two weeks or so before they get the biopsy results back from Ohio State so that is a bit of a worry.  I am so hoping this is the last surgery for this, even if she had to have the mammary chains completely removed.  No matter how extensive her surgery had to be, I hope she gets a couple days’ worth of Tramadols so she can get some rest.  She’s easy to pill, so I will request some sort of pain meds for her.  Last time she particularly liked having me put the ice pack on her stitches.  Clara wanted absolutely no part of ice when she had all those stitches under her leg after she was hit by a truck- but Clara and Sheena are totally different dogs.  Same size, but completely different mentalities.  Clara is almost impossible to pill, and she doesn’t understand that convalescence means “slow down and get better.”  She wanted to go running after critters at full bore a day after getting 42 stitches down the inside of her foreleg.   Sheena will take it slow and easy at least for a few days, and pilling her is as simple as folding a piece of bread around the pill and tossing it in her direction.

Wednesday morning after Taco Tuesday:

Windy Wednesday?

Schadenfreude, High School Revisited, and Counting My Blessings

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schadenfreude (n): Malicious enjoyment derived from observing someone else’s misfortune.

Leave it to me to come out of the clear blue sky with a new (to some) vocabulary word.  I have to say (confession time) that I have been at times most guilty of finding glee in other people’s disasters, especially when I observe those who appear to richly deserve a bit of cosmic justice.  I definitely have to confess to engaging in a bit of schadenfreude Saturday morning when I saw Jerry passed out on the bed, bare-assed, after an evening at the hell hole, his bewetted pants on the floor, with a piece of the front garden fencing still entangled in them.  It was all I could do to keep from grabbing the camera to catch some very unfortunate pics, because I know my uncontrollable laughing would wake his sorry ass up.  I learned years ago, let sleeping drunks lie.  It’s much quieter that way.  Besides, refraining from capturing the moment in pictorial posterity was as close to sympathy as I could get.

I should go ahead and fix the fence for aesthetic reasons,  but I think  as far as the “rubbing the puppy’s nose in his bad dog doody” element goes, he should have to do it.  It’s a bloody miracle that he didn’t destroy the rose bush or get lacerated to shreds on it.  He did manage to get some minor abrasions on both forearms, presumably acquired by dragging himself across the (concrete) porch, but other than his pride, he was otherwise undamaged.  To hear him tell it though, he barely escaped death because I wouldn’t answer the phone at 1AM to pick his sorry ass up.   As if I was put on this earth to mollycoddle drunks.

Maybe I am too mean, but I’m not enabling his drunk-and-stupid adventures, especially at the hell hole.  If he insists on going over there and getting both plastered and ripped off at the same time, he can drag his happy ass the half a block over there and the half a block back.  This also makes it easier for his buddy who works with him- and conveniently lives across the road- to observe, comment and engage in a little schadenfreude himself as Jerry staggers across the road and drags himself across the porch.  I have no sympathy for the drunk-and-stupid episodes and I’m not losing any sleep over the cuts, wet pants and other embarrassment he garners for himself by his lack of self-control. The drunk-and-stupids are self inflicted punishments, not like the Fickle Finger of Fate targeting someone who did nothing to earn their misfortune. 

I wonder if leaving him to wallow in his stupidity is teaching him anything. The definition of stupidity, after all, is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  He’s probably not learning a damned thing by being left to drag himself, the fence and his dampened drawers in, but again, there is that dark entertainment factor.  I wish he would learn better, but if not, I am going to find the humor in it.  At least this time he only lost $40 because I took the rest of his money, and his plastic before he left.  At least if nothing else, I’m learning.

I decided I am actually going to go to my 25th high school reunion- not to gloat over others’ misfortunes- but just out of my own curiosity.  Some people have changed so much I’d never recognize them, while others appear to be frozen in time.  That’s not necessarily a good thing, and when I go to these sorts of events, I generally remember there are often good reasons why I haven’t seen certain people for decades.  I know I have changed- hopefully for the better-and I (and they) live in different spheres.  What meant the world to me 20+ years ago might only register on the periphery, if at all, today.

I have a lot less patience in my cougardom than I did as a young punk- and a lot less tolerance for bullshit.   I am thankful that age does buy a certain amount of gravitas.   I don’t know if what I say actually does carry more authority- because I’ve been saying the same things all along- or that other people are finally catching up to my point of view.  Maybe they’re just tired of challenging me, who knows? 

I am grateful that I am not, like one of my sister’s friends, 42 years old with a four year old, a two year old- and in the middle of a nasty divorce.   I have all the sympathy in the world for her plight.  She didn’t deserve to be treated the way her POS old man treated her, and I find no joy in seeing someone suffer like that.  I got the nasty divorce over with sixteen years ago.  Steve-o is potty trained and literate and hopefully someday soon will be gainfully employed.  It’s not so bad being 42 with a 20 year old kid, but I couldn’t imagine dealing with a toddler at my age.  Dogs I can handle, but not those damned car seats, or the whining, or the worries about daycare and how to do this and afford that, etc. 

Speaking of dogs I am still waiting to hear about Sheena.  She’s having a mammary growth removed today (second go-round with mammary growths) and I am hoping this is benign.  I thought having her spayed would resolve the problem but apparently not.  She might come back with a total mastectomy (removal of both mammary chains) or with just the one growth removed, depending on what the Vet thinks.  The thing that aggravates me most is that if she had been treated properly and spayed early when she was younger she would never have gotten mammary growths.  However, I am glad that we got her away from the goofy rednecks who kept on breeding her even though it’s downright stupid to breed a dog who is already a crossbreed and who has hip dysplasia.  I wonder if they are in jail or if they just skipped town.  The tetanus farm has been deserted, so who knows?

Trucker Bombs of Franklin County, Congress Lost Its Wiener (heh-heh) and Creative Marketing

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Ok, we all know what trucker bombs are.  If not, see the tutorial here.  I’m starting to see them more often in town which is a disturbing trend.  Of course, in anything gross there is opportunity if you know where to find it.  There’s a guy who makes a calendar based on dog poop called Monthly Doos.  I got Dad one for his birthday once, which was funny, given his general distaste for dogs. If he can make money taking creative pics of dog shit, then I can make money with my photographic skills too.

I can see it now: a calendar containing a different trucker bomb at a different Franklin County exit ramp, intersection or bus stop.

One thing I noticed in our travels down South were the place names.  I spotted this one somewhere along I40 in Tennessee:

Truth in advertising.  I like that.  Now I have to wonder if the creek really stinks.

Congress lost its Wiener today.   Does that break anyone’s heart?  Would it have been different if he had a different name, like Smith or Jones-or Edwards?  Oh, wait a minute, Edwards has been indicted for misappropriating funds to pay off his baby mama, or something like that.  I thought that sordid kind of stuff- screwing anything that moves, spawning illegitimate children and then covering up the little shenanigans using misappropriated funds, was Democrat politics as usual.  He had a higher moral standard than Ted Kennedy- he didn’t drown her in the pond after he’d had his fun.  Then again, Teddy got away with murder, but his last name was Kennedy, and belonging to that family is pretty much a license to screw who you want, remain drunk all you want, and kill whoever you want.

I was amazed at the shit-eating grin in Edwards’  mug shot.  A mug shot is a mug shot after all.  Even if you’re not guilty, (or you’re guilty as hell but you know you’ll get away with it) you shouldn’t regard it as a photo op.

You’d think he was posing for a pic at the Senior Prom.  Either that or he is delusional and convinced he will be vindicated.

Maybe my calendar could include trucker bombs and disgraced politicians.

It could be fun.

 

 

 

 

 

Travel Envy, It’s Summer- So I’m Busy, and 20 Years of Steve-o

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Yeah, I did get to go to Niagara Falls back in ’04 which was extremely cool.  If we decided to go now either I would have to get a passport, which I am loathe to do in these days of 1984 meets Logan’s Run, or we would have to stay on the New York side which is both expensive and dismal.  I don’t want my car stolen.   I am not arrogant enough to think that someone would specifically want to spy on me or steal my identity, but I do believe in Murphy’s Law.  Give Mr. Murphy and company time to screw about in one’s past records, and Lord only knows what might get added, deleted or screwed up.   I really don’t need to go to Canada that bad.  Besides, the food all tastes like Clorox up there for some reason.  I’m sure there must be some good cuisine in Canada, but it’s sure as hell not at Niagara Falls.

I thought taking Mom and Dad to North Carolina would be a disaster, but it was actually a pleasant long weekend.  The drive wasn’t as traumatic as usual – not a lot of traffic, and no rain.  The only thing that sort of sucked is that Dad didn’t want the stereo turned on.  It wasn’t incredibly hot either like it was last year, and we did get an afternoon out on the lake in the boat which was almost worth the trip.  How anyone can get sunburn in spite of marinating in Factor 50 is beyond me, but my back still itches.  I would hate to think how fried it would have been without sunscreen.

The only sort of drawback to summer is that’s when I’m the busiest- busy at work, busy at home and I don’t get enough time to do relaxing things like float about in the Cougar Pool (which is most delightful by the way) or read interesting books.  I’ve not even been able to be online enough to catch the whole Wiener scandal, which I really shouldn’t find funny, but of course I do.  Of course I adore travel, but I highly doubt I will get much more than a couple of day trips to the campground, up to Marion, or down to Cincinnati.  What I would really enjoy would be a Cougar Cruise, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. 

Steve-o’s 20th birthday is next week.  He wants to spend it down in Kentucky 4-wheeling through the hollers with his buddies.  He wasn’t born a southerner- but should have been one- as much as he is into redneck culture and activities. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered to fix his teeth? 

Geezers Driving Old Buicks, and Pity Be On Grandma’s Car When She Dies…

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Yum.  I’m glad I am not relegated to driving 20 year old POS cars that only geezers dared to drive when they were new. The Buick guys used to joke that the Century got its name because that was the average age of the drivers.

In all seriousness, 20 years ago, there seemed to be an unwritten rule that it was uncool for the under-sixty set to buy a new Buick.  Buicks, Cadillacs, Oldsmobiles and Lincolns were Geezer Cars.  Legend had it they came from the factory already reeking of Absorbine Jr. and denture cream, and the radios were already set to the local AM talk radio station. Even I had the good fortune way back in the day when I had to drive 20 year old POS cars to score distressed imports that were at least once moderately cool and driven by the younger set in their day.

However, teenage kids are happy to receive anything that runs and drives, even if it reeks of lackluster design, stale prune juice, and used Depends.

Just add some chrome 22″ spinners to Grandma’s old Family Truckster and all will be well!  The irony is if you could afford a $5000 set of wheels, you could have afforded a lot better car.

Tricking out a not so valuable ride sort of reminds me of when I covered the dash of my ’77 VW Rabbit with black fake fur to cover the cracks in the dash. The difference is I was only out about $5 worth of fake fur and a few tubes of hot glue, and the old Rabbit didn’t make people think I was out after curfew from the assisted living center. I was even able to give a few Detroit iron muscle car aficionados a simple physics lesson with that car.  120 horsepower isn’t much, but the 1/4 mile isn’t about horsepower as much as it is low end torque.  A nice, light car, geared low with plenty of low end torque trumps a heavy car with a whole lot of horsepower, but not a lot of torque until it gets moving a bit- at least for 1/4 mile or more.  There was a certain satisfaction in beating out the guys with old Novas and Chevelles with that old ’77 Rabbit.

I won’t say the old Rabbits were perfect.  They were notoriously weird about electrical faults.  I always kept a stash of assorted fuses and bulbs because they were constantly being blown out.  None of my old Rabbits had working A/C, though I could have (in theory) put a new condenser in the GTI and got the A/C to work in that- for a few hundred bucks.  I should never have gotten rid of the GTI, but that’s water under the bridge.   All of the Rabbits at one point or another had brake problems of one sort or another.  All of the Rabbits I had, except the ’83 GTI, had to have the idle and timing manually adjusted every time the weather changed, which here in beautiful Central Ohio is just about every day.

The Rabbit pic above is  of a ’77.  My ’77 was a two-door and was sort of dog-shit brown, but my ’79 (American built, with square headlights -and it was a four door) was that same pastel blue enamel color.  Heaven help anyone weighing more than 70# and is taller than 4’9″ who tries to get in that back seat.