assorted rants

things that piss me off

Be Careful What You Wish For, Grinning Like the Cheshire Cat, and Take a Look Around

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I swear I didn’t send yesterday’s list with Jerry to the Dr.’s office- the one with the line about scheduling a colonoscopy and prostate exam with Extreme Prejudice.  It was a tempting thought, but I restrained myself.  He still has to schedule the colonoscopy, but he got his prostate exam right there.  I had to assure Jerry that no, it’s not a full arm ordeal like what Mike Rowe had to do to cows on Dirty Jobs. It might feel like a full arm ordeal, but hey, it’s all about your health.  At least now we know that’s not where Jimmy Hoffa ended up.  Besides, look at what women are supposed to have done every year once they turn 21.  And guys whine because they have to have their nether parts inspected from time to time once they turn 50.  Get over it, boys.

I should try to find Jerry some of those full-arm veterinary gloves just in the name of humor.

I shouldn’t be grinning like the Cheshire Cat, but it’s sort of funny in a way.  Maybe that’s what the Cheshire Cat thought to be so funny- a sort of cosmic justification.  Now you see, grasshopper, a little bit of what the other side sees.

I can verify that the exam Jerry had yesterday involved probably only one finger if the illustration is correct.  Unless he was mistaken for a horse.  Then it’s back to the veterinary gloves.

I am glad that Monsoon season here in Central Ohio is at least giving way to warm temperatures with the rain.  It’s almost time for the dogwoods to bloom, and I look forward to that every year.

The rose bushes are actually getting leaves on them and hopefully they will be budding soon.  I gave them some of that rose food stuff last night.  Jerry was still hyper and all traumatized last night so I ended up doing various chores to shut him up.  I really hate that because I am dead tired in the evening, and the last thing I want to do is sweep up leaves and crap but he did clear out the front flower beds so I can get some annuals and some mulch to finish them off- when it stops raining for a few hours again.

So I will have to have a triple threat evening tonight- hair, face Nair, and nails.  Hopefully he will decide to leave me alone long enough to get these things done.  I would hate to have bushier eyebrows and a thicker beard than his.  I’ve done them all in the same night before.  It’s worth it not to overly frighten young children and dogs.  I would be afraid of some old geezer lady like myself too, especially when the facial hair and the Unibrow gets out of control.  Nasty.  Trust me on that one.

A good friend of mine once told me to be careful what I wish for.  I understand what he means by that- sometimes what we might think to be a blessing ends up being a curse.  Reality might not be what I wish for, but as Mick Jagger put it, “You can’t always get what you want/You can try sometimes/You just might find/You get what you need.”  Again, the pragmatic approach works here.  Take what you’re given and run with it and don’t spend a whole lot of time and energy lamenting the roads not traveled or the opportunities missed.  Sometimes what we thought we wanted wasn’t what we needed at all, and something we would have never wanted ends up being exactly what we needed. I’ll try to remember that little cosmic tidbit the next time Isabel decides to puke on the kitchen counter or some other completely inappropriate place.

Wish in one hand, shit in the other- which one fills up first?  And cat puke is universal.

I’m hoping for a quiet and peaceful weekend, and maybe a moment or two of solitude here and there.  I need some ivory tower time.  I’ve not gotten much of that lately and it shows.  Perhaps I will have more time to troll the National Archives website and look at pictures, if that doesn’t get shut down this weekend.  I just thought of that.  Then again, I will always find something to do in my solitude.  Drawing- I enjoy drawing, but hardly ever do it anymore, or cross-stitch, or perhaps revisiting one of the many books in my collection.  Who knows?  I enjoy the quiet and the autonomy more than anything.

Pragmatic and Loving It, More Things I Need to Do, and Aging (Crankily)

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I don’t know why, but it seems I’ve been on the theme lately of history and real life (thanks, WildBill for pointing that out.)  I think most of us have a really good idea what our own personal utopia would and would not contain, (I know I would not pre-empt World’s Dumbest on TruTV in order to televise basketball games and the endless commentary on them, for starters)  but the practical application is that we have to live in the dystopia we find ourselves in. 

I wish I knew where to buy the Darth Vader condoms.  I would have an econo-box shipped to Steve-o, anonymously of course, as if he wouldn’t be able to figure out who was behind such a practical gift. 

I don’t condone pre-marital fornication, and in my ideal world Steve-o would save himself for marriage.  Reality is not my ideal world.  I try to maintain an open dialogue with my offspring, even when I don’t agree with him or condone what he does.  I have to love him regardless of what he does or how he screws up.  I would rather know the truth, and I would rather for him to feel safe to be honest with me. The worst thing I can do is to go into an apoplectic fit whenever he does something I don’t agree with so he feels motivated to hide things from me.  My mother still does that, (she is very Catholic, after all) and I’ve never felt comfortable sharing anything in regard to my love life with her for that reason- even back in the day when I did have juicy tidbits to share.  I still remember Mom’s epic tantrum when she found my evil sadistic sister’s birth control pills.  I was glad that firestorm was not pointed at me.  I knew to hide mine better than that- and to keep my escapades to myself.   Although I’m not a huge fan of situational ethics, I don’t want Steve-o fathering offspring he can’t afford to support.  If that means strongly recommending he use prophylactics when he fornicates, that’s what it means. Of course, if he were to slip up and surprise me with an unplanned grandchild, I would hope that he would trust me enough to know that I would help him do the right things to support that girl and that child in any way I could.

So far, so good.  I should go ahead and send out those condoms though, even though at the current moment he’s living in a sausage farm.  I should pay him that surprise visit to his apartment in Lima too, just to satisfy my own curiosity at how nasty any domicile with three young men living in it can be.  I’m visualizing something along the lines of the Delta House.  (Remember, from the movie Animal House?) I am sure Martha Stewart would not approve.

I know enough to understand that reality is dystopia.  If I had any say in how the world works, I would be six feet tall, 120# , look like Demi Moore, and Jerry would be transformed into a non-drinking, non-smoking doting husband with the body (and libido) of a scrumptious young boy toy.   Obviously, there are a lot of things in this world I have no control over.  How I deal with the fact that reality doesn’t always follow my rules is going to determine my effectiveness and my happiness in life.  I think Clint Eastwood said it in the movie Heartbreak Ridge: Improvise, adapt and overcome.

I improvise and adapt quite a LOT.  Overcoming, well, sometimes that’s a crap shoot.

Tonight I need to Nair my face and dye my hair again.  Tomorrow night it’s time to re-do the claws.  I have to do what I can with what I have, which is sort of a scary thought.  Reminds me of the days when I held that old Subaru together with duct tape, pop rivets and bumper stickers.

I still have some of the pink glitter polish.  That’s always fun.

The main reason why I even bother with acrylic nails (other than my natural nails are flimsy and don’t grow well) and funky nail polish is that longer nails sort of offset my big, meaty man-hands.  I’m proportioned like some sort of bizarre troll.  I’m all upper body and torso with really short arms and legs.  My feet are normal sized (7B, which these days is actually considered small) but my hands are behemoth, which makes no sense.  I usually can’t wear womens’ gloves, which is a source of frustration because I like nice leather driving gloves in the winter.  I found a pair that fit well a couple of years ago, and miraculously, I haven’t lost either one of that pair.  I will play hell replacing those, although I have to say I do like the Isotoner gloves Mom got me, even though they are not leather.  They do fit well. 

From the waist up (except for the shortness of my arms) I look like I should be 6′ tall.  From the waist down, I have very short legs.  God has a sense of humor.  All I have to do to see that is to look in the mirror- or try to find pants that are the correct length.  Petites are high-waters, and “Average” length pants scrape the ground.

Jerry had his happy fun bi-annual Dr. appointment today.  I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.  He wanted me to make him a list of stuff to bring up to the Dr. so that he wouldn’t forget. I did, but it was a pretty tame list.   I should have sent my version of the list, but I would have to have written it in very small print and then hid his glasses.

Here’s my version of “Things to ask the Dr. Regarding Jerry’s Health”-

Which blood tests are you doing today and why? 

Please schedule a colonoscopy and prostate exam.  With Extreme Prejudice.

Is drinking a 12 pack of Natties 3-5 nights a week normal?

Does Jerry still have a liver? Or lungs?

Is there any medication that stops incessant bitching?  Dilaudid worked pretty good for this when he broke his ribs.  He slept good, and he was so quiet he didn’t bother me much at all.  That was Good Stuff.  I haven’t slept so good since.

Do you have any free samples of Viagra?  Can Jerry have a few of them?

I should have sent my list.  I did put “depression” on his list but I bet he won’t have the balls to be honest about it.  In all seriousness, Jerry is depressed, and he has been for so long he thinks being depressed is normal.  I used to think that too, but somehow I know better.  Again, it’s that difference between what my utopia would look like and the dystopia I live in.  Jerry hasn’t got the clue that he will never live in a perfect world and he is unwilling to adapt to the one he lives in.  Maybe Prozac would help.  I know it helps me. 

Then again, I have to admit I really enjoyed that week when he was on the Dilaudids.  It’s never been so quiet.

Antique Cartography, Funky Facts, and I Don’t Take Requests

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To satisfy my curiosity,I had to see if I could find any early 20th century railroad maps of the US and more specifically, Ohio, so I could see the five points railroad connections in Marion for myself.  The proof I was looking for is here in a 1914 Ohio railway map.  The five points where the rail lines come together in Marion are clearly visible on the 1914 map.  It is still possible to see the Five Points area today, only now its primary identifying landmark is a beer drive-thru.  There is a big difference between the 1914 map and the 2009 map .  Many of those old rail lines were abandoned and pulled up in the early ’80’s.

I like to look at old maps, especially 19th century ones, because they are relatively accurate as far as topography and scale, and they are painfully detailed in the inclusion of place names.  They are also hand-drawn and far more aesthetically pleasing to look at than modern maps.  Of course some of the place names on the old maps are nothing but someone’s cornfield today, but it’s interesting to see the population shifts.  Everyone wants to live in the city.  I can’t say I blame anyone for that.  Living out in the middle of nowhere has its advantages- especially that of privacy and not having to contend with crowds and traffic and the assorted accumulations of dingleberries one encounters in the city, but the major disadvantages come into play when the weather is too bad for road trips and/or one is ill.   Getting health care is bad enough in the city- where you get the royal runaround to get care, you have to deal with way too many people and way too much bureaucratic BS, and when you finally can get things scheduled and arranged, you pay out the wazoo for it.  But health care in the rural backwaters is even harder to get (try finding a Dr. that speaks remotely intelligible English – if you can find a Dr. to begin with-in the sticks) and a good deal of the time basic health services are either non-existent or pitifully inadequate.  Most of the time if you live in the sticks, it’s worth the drive to the city for health care.  Make the road trip, trust me.  But if someone in the sticks needs trauma care, that person is pretty much SOL if the nearest trauma center is 100 miles or more away. 

Sometimes I find the trend to centralize everything to be a bit aggravating.  I understand that it makes better sense to have a large amount of resources in one location, but the logistics don’t always work out as planned.  What’s the point of  “one stop shopping” if the one stop is unnavigable because of the sheer size of the place and from the volume of the teeming crowds who are also trying to squeeze in to get their crud?  When I go to the grocery, especially when I am on time constraints, it’s always my luck that the two old bitties standing around socializing in the dairy section are standing directly in front of the milk cooler door, in front of that gallon of  2% that I need to get.  If you’re going to piddle around in the store, stand in front of something nobody buys, or at least stand in front of something I don’t need to buy.  Go hang out in the condom aisle, or in the candy aisle, or the adult diaper section, or somewhere other than in front of the 2% milk, if you must stand about and chit-chat.  Please don’t block the staple items…but they always do.  Sometimes it takes an Act of God to keep my mouth shut when I want to simply scream, “Would you mind moving your fat asses! I’m trying to get my shit and get out of here!”   Going to the behemoth Kroger store is an undertaking.  I can get almost everything I need there, but sometimes I don’t need to get everything.  Do I really want to wander about for half a mile through this behemoth store, dodging screaming, uncontrolled rugrats, and trying to evade the free sample ladies because I need a gallon of milk, or because the Dingleberry decided he just has to have the one entree item that I don’t already have in the freezer?

I can hear it now. “But I don’t want tilapia filets.  I want catfish nuggets!” 

Never mind that tilapia was on sale and catfish wasn’t.   In my mind it’s logical to get the sale meat or the sale fish rather than to pay up the wazoo for catfish when it’s not on sale, but tilapia is on sale.  I get chicken breast when it’s on sale, pork chops when they’re on sale, beef roast when it’s on sale.  I don’t like paying retail for meat.  If pork chops are on sale then it’s pork chops instead of beef roast or chicken if they’re not on sale.  How hard is that?

Bucko, you’re getting tilapia. Eat it and like it.  It’s raised in the farm ponds just like catfish is.  Maybe catfish will be on sale next week, but for now, improvise, adapt and overcome.  As Mom always used to tell us:  “Thank God you have food.”  If I could learn to thank God for mashed potatoes with big burnt black chunks in them and a vile version of tuna casserole that I strongly believe killed Suzie the Dachshund at the relatively early age of seven, (I still feel guilty about that, because I liked Suzie,) then you can thank God for grilled tilapia.  You can also thank God that, unlike my mother, I can actually cook.

I Think I’m Afraid to Flush, Way Too Much Rain, and All Points Converge Here

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A peculiar quirk here in Central Ohio during the Monsoon Season (the two months – give or take a week or two- between the seasons of Snowbooger Grey and Stygian Heat, usually from mid-March to late May) is that occasionally storm drains overflow into the sanitary sewers, making it possible for effluvia rinsed down sinks, flushed down commodes, etc. to go the opposite direction than the one intended.  Low elevation, painfully flat landscapes, clay soil and torrential rains do not make for an optimum environment for natural drainage.

During the monsoon episodes, should one need to relieve oneself, in a good part of Central Ohio, you get to play a rousing game of “toilet roulette.”

Should I flush?  If it’s yellow, let it mellow?  If it’s brown, will it actually flush down?  What are the odds of ending up with a floor full of unspeakable mess?

At home I am not too averse to waiting to flush until the storm subsides, and I can see that the storm sewer grate is clear outside, as I really don’t want a backflow situation in my own bathroom.  But in public places it is extremely rude to leave your leavings without giving them their final send off, or at least making the attempt.

So far so good today.  For now.  Hopefully the deluge will take a break for an hour or two and let the storm sewers clear out some more.

I am glad it wasn’t raining like this yesterday when I was up in Marion.  It actually was a pretty good day. Steve-o got his hair cut and got some shades he wanted.

Dad had mentioned something intriguing when I was up there that I had some peripheral background on, but had not really taken a whole lot of notice.  I grew up not even really noticing the trains because trains went through town constantly and they still do.  You don’t notice them until you leave, and it either seems oddly quiet, or the trains are replaced with another background noise, which in my case today is the airport.  I live less than half a mile from Port Columbus.  I don’t notice the planes unless I make it a point to pay attention to them, but I certainly did notice the silence on 9/11 and the days following.  Passenger aircraft constantly taking off and landing, and F15s flying over have vastly different sounds.

In the early 20th century there were five different railroads that converged in Marion- from all points across the country.  Only two of those rail lines remain- the trains still go through pretty much constantly, with their endless cargos of coal, but the trains haven’t actually stopped in Marion since the early 1970’s.  If one looks close enough one can see where these rail lines once intersected which is sort of interesting.

At one time there were a lot of people going everywhere and nowhere.  Of course people are still going everywhere and nowhere, but the ride is a lot less scenic and usually is taken up with either phone conversations, electronic gadgetry, and the endless monotone of  flat, straight Interstate.  I enjoy a road trip (and even more if I make it a point to take a less traveled road) but I think something might be lost in the autonomy one has when you drive.  The train journey leaves your whereabouts at the mercy of another force, but paradoxically it also gives you the freedom to drift off into that void between everywhere and nowhere.   Sleeping (or even that delightful realm of half-sleep) and driving don’t mix.

The ghosts are restless at those convergence points.  It’s easy to imagine them at the train station even though trains don’t stop there anymore and only part of the train station remains.  Someone waiting for the next train.  Someone running down the platform.  Someone looking for someone who will never return.

I’m haunted by those stories, especially those of the troop trains.

Everywhere and nowhere.

Eventually the rain will stop, and I will get beyond my little melancholy foray into a past I don’t really understand.

On a lighter note, there are seasons here in Central Ohio. We have five.   That’s why the people who live here part of the year, but go to Florida part of the year, go down there for most of them.

Winter.  Begins right after Halloween, lasts until mid-February or so.  Best described as, “The Brass Balls Have Frozen off the Brass Monkey.”  Lots of precipitation. Dark most of the time.  Freezing rain, snow, ice, etc.

Snowbooger Grey. Mid-February or so until mid-late March.  Like winter, but with temperatures hovering right around freezing, so the snow all melts and the landscape everywhere looks like those snowboogers that accumulate in the splash guards and wheel wells of cars.  Since it’s slightly warmer than winter there’s more rain, and a bit more daylight, if you can notice through the overcast, grey haze that hangs over everything.  Dismal.

Monsoon.  Mid-late March-mid-late May.  Or so.  Just rain.  Constantly.

Stygian Heat.  100% humidity.  100% bugs.  Late May-mid-September. Plenty of rain.

Fall Monsoon. Mid-September-Halloween. Do you like rain? 🙂

Cultural Illiteracy, Road Tripping with Clara and Lilo, and Boxing?

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I should have known that Jerry’s co-workers would have absolutely no idea who Vincent Van Gogh was.  He works in a body shop after all.  Since I failed to make any reference to any redneck cultural icons, they didn’t get the joke.  If I had mentioned anything involving NASCAR, other sports, especially football, or country music, then I probably would  have been OK.  One of the guys asked Jerry if I had attempted to do a Mike Tyson on him.  I should have caught that.   Mike Tyson- as a heavy weight boxer, and boxing is a sport- would be much more likely to be in these guys’ frames of reference than a 19th century Impressionist painter would be.  Shame on me for my cultural illiteracy.  If I’m going to attempt to make a joke, I have to remember who my audience is.

I don’t really know a whole lot about boxing, (or about any sport) but it is one of the more interesting sports to watch.  I would never want to engage in boxing, wrestling, hockey or football or any other contact sport, as I had my ass kicked enough times in the first ten years of my life to last anyone a lifetime.  I’ve had my ass kicked enough to know that I don’t want it kicked again unless I have a damned good reason to fight.  Since my fighting skills are pretty much non-existent, I would have to say the only things that would get me into a physical fight would be self-defense, or attempting to defend someone else who is wrongfully getting a pounding.  Then I would be morally and ethically compelled to at least make the best attempt I can.  I don’t want to get my ass kicked for anything trivial.

I don’t mind watching other people beat the hell out of each other though, especially when they’ve agreed to do it.  Boxing is kind of fun to watch because the action doesn’t stop very often.  The rules make sense.  You win when you knock the other guy out.  I don’t see how boxing could be considered a sport one takes on for one’s health benefit though.  The training for boxing might consist of healthy things to do, but then you take that buff bod and go run out and get your ass kicked?  Perhaps this is the effect of testosterone on the brain, but women box too, so that can’t be the whole answer.

I was the loser in enough catfights in my time- courtesy of my oldest sister, the most sadistic child ever dropped on planet Earth- that I really don’t like watching women fight.  Unless of course they are yanking out each other’s hair weaves.  For some reason I think that’s funny.  My hair, back in the day, was of course, attached to my scalp, making the whole hair-pulling bit a hell of a lot more painful.

This afternoon I have to take Clara and Lilo up to the Vet.  Lilo has been mistaking her butt for food lately and I am at a loss as to why she is chewing on it.  Clara also has one bad spot on her leg which I think is another granuloma, but that I want to have the Vet check out since I am making the road trip.  Sheena is (thankfully) doing OK so she doesn’t need to go, and I wouldn’t tempt fate by trying to handle more dogs than I have hands at one time.

At least I’m getting out for a bit.  They like riding in the car and they both really don’t mind seeing the Vet so it should be an interesting afternoon.

Please, Reattach Body Parts Should They Fall Off, and Other Things I Should Never Have to Request

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I’ve been a sort-of fan of impressionist art. I can appreciate Van Gogh and Monet, but then I can also appreciate cats playing poker. I certainly wouldn’t call myself an art snob.  My tastes in art are varied and eclectic for what it’s worth.

 About the only “art” I draw the line on involves the use of bodily effluvia (snot, poo, pee, etc. are not artistic, sorry) and/or the portrayal of Elvis and/or Dale Earnhardt.

It seems that Jerry must have mistaken himself for Van Gogh last night.  He made another poor decision to go the hell hole to get hammered (what’s so unusual about that?) and managed to inflict bodily injury on himself (again.)  This time it was his ear lobe.  He didn’t come close to actually ripping it off but he fell into something and managed to get about  a 1/2″ cut in it.  It’s not a life threatening cut, and it’s not even in a place that can be stitched, but every time he so much as brushed against it this morning it would bleed.  The pillowcase looks like Freddy Krueger had actually gotten to him in his sleep from the amount of bloodstains on it.  Remember what they said about not going to sleep or Freddy will get you? (Man, I loved the 80’s slasher flicks back in the day…just couldn’t get enough of that slashtastic action.)   

I should have really freaked him out with that observation, but I was busy enough trying to get him to let me put a band-aid on it or something.  One would  have thought from the drama that Freddy really did come in and slash him last night.

I put a little note in his lunch for the guys to read.  Today’s should be very funny.

Dear Guys:

Please be extra nice to Jerry today.  Last night he was so confused and distraught he mistook himself for Vincent Van Gogh and tried to cut his ear off.  Should it actually fall off, please take him to the ER so it can be reattached.  Thank you for your patience and understanding.

I thought it was weird when I had to leave messages with Steve-o’s sitter such as:

Please do not allow Stephan to eat all five boxes of Pop-Tarts I sent in one day.  He is permitted one package of two Pop-Tarts per day.  Thanks!  (This was actually a note to my mother, who for some reason thought it was OK to let a six year old free-forage in the kitchen.)

Please do not allow Stephan to eat more than two (2) Fig Newtons with any given meal.  Figs give him Montezuma’s Revenge.

Please do not allow Stephan to chew on your dog’s toys unless you sanitize them.  I wouldn’t want your dog getting any diseases.

Of course, I still think that my request directly to Steve-o to just put the dirty pants in the wash without sniffing the crotch as a “freshness” test, takes the prize.   I never imagined I would ever have to say this to a 17 year old.

I’ve had to request some strange things in my lifetime, but I’m used to it.  Not too many things shock me anymore. 

I’m sure I’ll think of some though.

Masks of the Heart, Real Life, and Breakfast in Bed

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I can’t say that any of my facades are this lovely, but I do appreciate a good Venetian mask.  I can put up a heavy front when I feel it is required, which is most of the time, but there’s not much I can do to mask my poor coordination and bad proportions or exceptionally plain face.  It’s just not possible to polish a turd, unless of course you have watched the episode of Mythbusters where Adam and Jamie do exactly that to make a point.  It can technically be done, but why?

I hide behind a lot of masks.  Sarcasm is one of my favorites.  So is assuming intellectual superiority where possible, which is more often than it probably should be.  I’ve never claimed to be some sort of great mind- the more I learn the more I discover I don’t know- but the ignorance and/or stupidity of the populace at large is frightening.  Just because stupidity is rampant doesn’t make me any smarter than I was before.  Rampant stupidity only means that most other people are more stupid than I am, which is scary on a number of levels.   Here’s how I see it.  I am no great intellect, but in comparison to the average Joe or Jane Blow on the street, I’m a flipping rocket scientist.  That should be frightening to anyone who has ever witnessed me in one of my absent-minded fits where I’ve misplaced and then had to try to find things like my car keys, my phone, my Bluetooth headset, or my MP3 player.  I should have Velcro embedded into my skin and likewise a patch of Velcro stuck to these essential objects so I can just stick those objects to my body.  That way, maybe, I can remember where they are.  It could make showering a challenge though.

In reality, I’m certainly not a rocket scientist.  I played hell getting through high school algebra.  I wonder to this day how I not only made it through three quarters of accounting in college, but managed to do it with high “B”s.  I may be one of those geeky analytical types, but for some reason higher math never clicked with me.  I’m doing good to balance my checkbook so I can freak out over all the money I don’t have.

Money and intelligence don’t always go together either.  Especially inherited or married-into money.  I never had any kind of advantage in that department- having been born not only with a plastic spoon in my mouth AND looks that could stop a thousand trucks.  So I never got any scratch from relatives, and I certainly didn’t have the bait to attract a rich sugar daddy.  I’m fortunate to have landed a man with Dad’s minimum criteria.  Dad would always ask three questions when my sisters would talk about getting serious with a guy:

1. Is it white? (Racist?  Probably, but Dad is not at all PC, and in his mind marrying a Catholic was as close to “mixed marriage” and moving past the traditional WASP couple paradigm as he ever chose to contemplate.  He just about lost it when one of my sisters went out on a date with a guy who was half Mexican.  For some reason, though, he didn’t object to Jerry, who is probably 9/10ths or more Cherokee.)

2. Is it male? (Homophobic?  Definitely- but Dad does come from a backwater town- and a very conservative, old school, Regular Baptist upbringing. I am most certainly a straight woman anyway, so I can forgive him that. I may have brought home some dismal trollings in my time, but they were always male.)

3. Is it employed? (Dad has no use for deadbeats, and I really don’t blame him for that either.)

To his three minimum qualifications (though #1 is a grey area as far as I’m concerned- I really don’t get hung up on race or ethnicity) I would add “hair” and “teeth.”  Jerry does have hair and teeth (the teeth are mostly implants, but not dentures at least) which at almost 54 is rather amazing.  I am a bit curious, though I hesitate to investigate the statistics.  I wonder how many men over the age of 50 are afflicted with ED?  I bet it’s more than half, and I bet very few of them either admit it or do anything about it, regardless of the popularity of  the Viagra and Cialis commercials.  Guys just don’t like to face it.  I can add an FYI: neither do women.  We just suffer in involuntarily celibate silence- unless we have the money (and the lack of scruples and absence of shame) to hire a boytoy.  I have neither the money nor the lack of conscience to find myself a boytoy, cougar jokes with Steve-o’s friends aside, so it is what it is.  Thankfully, I have hobbies, and early menopause has pretty much done away with any desire I had anyway.   My idea of a romantic evening is TruTV and an early bedtime.  It’s easier that way anyway.

Dad never said anything about ED.  He should have warned me, but I can’t imagine someone as modest and straight laced as Dad about such things making a statement like this:

“Just so you know, when your old man gets to be about 45 or so, his Johnson won’t work any more.  Sorry.”

There’s just some things you have to learn as you go, apparently.

I’ve got to stop putting myself through that kind of noise.  The whole weekend breakfast routine.  I don’t even like breakfast, and I usually only gag down some yogurt and oatmeal to keep my sugar in line in the mornings.  (Diabetes sucks, but it does make you pay attention to nutrition and exercise and all that health nut stuff.) Jerry enjoys the Behemoth Breakfast which means I have to get up early on a weekend morning to fix it for him, and serve it to his happy ass- in bed.  I don’t know how someone can drink that much alcohol and eat that much grease and still be above ground.  Maybe I’m the one who has it backwards.  Jerry might be like those Russian dudes who drink vodka all day and smoke cigars one right after the other and live to be 115.  That wouldn’t surprise me one bit.

All That Really Matters, a Crack in the Armor, and Leash Training

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Sheena is a beautiful dog, but she is as stubborn and willful as she is beautiful.  We decided (or should I say Jerry decided, because I am not at all hyper like he is in the evenings) to take the dogs out on leashes, which we haven’t done for some time.  Clara and Lilo were not too bad, although Clara always does better on a leash with her harness.  I should have taken the extra minute or two to put Clara in her harness.  I refuse to use choke chains or pinch collars on my dogs, although I’ve seen a lot of people who handle Malinois use choke chains or pinch collars to keep the dogs under better control.   Clara simply wants to run.  The aim is to get her to stay back and walk politely which she does when she knows she has the harness on and I can pull her back if I need to.  Lilo was her usual self, laid back and trotting along with her peculiar little bow-legged, sideways gait.  I wonder sometimes if she tracks sideways because she’s cross-eyed or because she’s bow-legged, or maybe a combination of both.

The few times I’ve had Sheena on her leash she has been relatively obedient for me.  She does surprisingly well in spite of her lack of socialization and formal training.  Then again, Sheena is a bit of a cling-on with me anyway, so that makes leash training, even with a conventional collar, a breeze.  Until Jerry takes her leash.

Sheena did not want to be on the leash with Jerry.  I can’t blame her.  I don’t like it either, and he only has me leashed in a figurative way.  I had Clara, and without her harness she was enough of a handful.  So Sheena decided that if she had to be with Jerry, she was simply going to sit and dig her big, splayed feet into the ground.  I never knew this about Huskies until we got Sheena.  They have huge, insulated, clompy paws that are reminiscent of polar bears’.  Sheena is a huge klutz on dry land, but surprisingly graceful on snow and ice.  Sheena, however, does not do anything Sheena does not want to do. It’s funny.  She’s just as stubborn as Jerry is.

Yesterday was a very pleasant day.  Steve-o got rid of that monstrosity of a hoopty Mitsubishi that I had been hoping he would do ever since he ended up with that piece of mess.  Somebody was even dumb enough to give him money for that POS, which I welcome, but fail to understand.   Now all I need to hear from him is that he’s spending his weeks keeping up his GPA, and his weekends cooking up that taco meat and shoveling it into those tacos and burritos.  I don’t want him to work at Taco Bell forever, but a few hours or so on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays- until  he finishes school- is not too much to ask.   If he could do 20 or 30 hours a week at $9 an hour, that would certainly help, and they don’t even have to train him because he’s worked there before.  Then he can worry about buying his own food and gasoline and cigarettes for a change.

Adding to yesterday’s pleasantness, I had an unexpected, but welcome, conversation with an old friend.  I still have a heart in there somewhere after all.  I know, I know, how things could have, should have been. Wish in one hand and crap in the other, which one fills up first- but it’s nice to know that old connection is still there, and that I do have at least one friend that is thicker than water.   Since my true friends are few and far between and delightfully rare, as I have said before, I should take care not to neglect them.

Memory and imagination both serve me well- probably too much so- but hearing a voice from the past and even engaging in surface-level pleasantries was a rare delight.  There are a lot of people I have to talk to and with out of necessity, but very few I enjoy talking with.  I hope sometime in the near future that we can talk in private over dinner and a drink rather than a little too publicly over the phone, but that might be a bit hard for me to take.  I would be the one in need of the leash instead of the dogs, and that’s not a place where I need to go.

Balance is the key word.  Usually I am quite the example of reserve and restraint, but it’s been a long time since- well, a lot of things- but I miss intelligent conversation the most.  I also miss being treated like a lady and not just someone’s housekeeper/babysitter/gofer/indentured servant.   There is something to be said for spending an evening in civilized conversation with a friend versus spending an evening effectively alone cranking up the MP3 player with the noise-cancelling headphones to drown out the lovely infernal racket of Drunk and Stupid meets Boxcar Willie. 

I have to be careful how far I let my mind wander, and I need to set some boundaries on just how much lingering in the garden of memory I’m allowed.  Still, there’s nothing like a bit of an oasis in a very hot, vast desert.

I have to find a balance between maintaining those relationships that challenge me and energize me (very few and far between) and tossing the albatrosses around my neck overboard.  I tend to forget when to toss the albatross.

I’m too old to start over even if I could, and whatever fiery passions of youth I once had are pretty well extinguished.  As the old joke says, “In my youth I wanted a nice BMW.” -” Today I’ll settle for it without the W. ” 

Besides, anyone interested in dinner and conversation with a crusty old cougar like me has likely long-since been relegated to the “coyote-style” crowd, so crossing the line in a carnal fashion is highly unlikely to occur.  It’s not as if I am still some horny teenager or twenty-something, and all of my friends are significantly older than me.   Hopefully the POMC is enjoying “Willie on Demand” while he can (even though in conscience I can’t approve of him fornicating) because there will come a day when Johnson won’t stand at attention any more. 

Unless of course, by the time Steve-o gets old, Medicare is still paying for geezers’ pecker pumps.  That would be his luck.

Not Very Nice (but Hilarious as Hell) Observations of the Unwashed Masses

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I have friends who send me the “People of Walmart” picture collections all the time.  I do find them funny, largely because anyone who ventures out in public looking like that deserves to have their picture posted online ad nauseam and to infinity, if for no other reason than to send a message.  Some people actually have standards, such as keeping one’s butt crack  covered and out of public view. (Steve-o….)  I can’t blame Steve-o for crashing out on the couch, but I can get the pic of his exposed midriff.  He can literally sleep anywhere, which can be fun to both watch and document.

On Sunday, when I was in Marion, Steve-o and I decided to go to Taco Bell, which hopefully was a good thing, because I think he has talked them in to having him work there again on the weekends.   I get culture shock every time I go back up to Marion.  Closer to home, I’m used to seeing foreigners and what I would consider “sophisticated freaks.”  Up there, the freak element is usually morbidly obese, poorly dressed, and always White Trash.   

Sunday was no exception.  I was surprised I noticed her before Steve-o did, but then he is more acclimated to the ways of the Rural Ohio Redneck, because he lives in Marion and goes to school in Lima.  It’s sort of like Deliverance- only without the mountains, canoes or banjos.  There’s not much else to do in rural small towns except to eat and fornicate, so one can expect to see a lot of fat people doing a lot of breeding, especially the ones who don’t have cable.

Steve-o is not a “little guy.”  He’s 6’1″ and somewhere between 180# and 190#.  Up there, however, he is often dwarfed by the women.  One thing I like about going back up there is that by comparison I’m downright petite.  

This chick had at least 150# on Steve-o and probably an inch or two of height as well.  I didn’t take a pic of her out of fear that since she was in an eating establishment she might mistake me for food.  I don’t know where she found such massive pajama bottoms with this print, although Walmart is renowned for the variety of styles in their Plus Size collection.  She had to be a 5X at least.  Now I know who’s buying the size 20 underwear.  Why, oh why, does any clothing manufacturer sell size 20 women’s undies in the thong style?  What’s the point?  I understand that it might take a few yards of material to craft a “brief” style panty (although there’s nothing “brief” about an ass the size of a Toyota Corolla) in that size, but the coverage factor would be well worth it.   If one really wants a 5X thong it would be more cost effective to go to the Tractor Supply store and buy a 25′ spool of rope.  Better yet, for the tiny bit of good it might do, as far as coverage goes, just go commando.  It would spare others the visual of getting to see your thong-string as well as your gut when you get up and stretch and yawn.  Woof.

I had to watch this heifer’s Taco Bell feeding orgy with a sort of a combination of disgust and awe.  I tried to avert my eyes but I simply had to watch, sort of like when there’s a car wreck. You know you shouldn’t stop and gawk, but you just do.   I never knew it was possible to cram two whole tacos in a human (?) mouth at one time, only to munch, chug Mountain Dew, and still manage to carry on a conversation.  The two tacos were only an appetizer.  I gazed in muted horror as She-Behemoth inhaled an order of Nachos Bell Grande, a steak quesadilla, a few burritos, a  box of 12 supreme tacos, with sour cream and guacamole, and a Mountain Dew with a few refills.  Thankfully I am not one who is easily nauseated.  Steve-o (thankfully, or I’d never been able to keep a straight face) was facing the opposite direction of the She-Behemoth during her cram-fest so he didn’t get an eyeful of her power taco-stuffing adventure.  He is not easily nauseated either, but he is also even less likely than I am to hold back his commentary on such a disgusting visual.  I could only hope that if he did see and inevitably comment, that he would be kind enough to comment in German, so at least he would be the only one to understand that he was making crude references to the table manners of feeder swine.

I managed to eat my chili-cheese burrito without much incident.  Steve-o did glance over and see She-Behemoth when he was on his way out, as she was stretching, yawning, and exposing a rather large bare patch of her rather porcine gut (and what I believe was -gag- the string of her thong.)  All he did was look away and shudder.  He saved his commentary for when we got in the car.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him what watching her eat was like.

Now I know why I normally go through the drive-thru at places like Taco Bell, so I don’t have to sit down to eat and feel as if I am in a hog barn observing the sows suck down the slop.

It is sort of cruel to make fun of the large.  I am not rail-thin by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s a difference between being large and being crude and large.  If you have big meaty arms, wear tops with sleeves.  Do the general public a favor and don’t confuse tights or leggings with pants.  If your top doesn’t completely cover your butt, don’t wear it with tights or leggings.  Tight jeans are for Steve Perry in the early ’80’s.  If you don’t look like that, and if you aren’t a dude, don’t go there. 

If I had a time machine…

Another disturbing trend I notice when I’m out in public is there must be a dire shortage of mirrors.  Either that or I’m just old and it has become socially acceptable to go out while wearing house slippers and/or pajamas in general.  I really try to save others from that visual. 

I can stand the PJ parade a lot better than I can the Piercings and/or Tats Gone Wild crowd.  What could possibly compel someone to tattoo his entire arm to look green and scaly like a lizard?  I saw a Target “Team Member” (cringe– any place that has euphemistic names for their employees such as “Associate,”  “Team Member,” etc. is almost always a dreadful place to work, and I’ve commented on that phenomenon before) yesterday who had this done to his left arm.  He was a nice looking young kid at one time- probably even magically delicious- before the 1 1/2″ earrings, before the nose rings, before the lip rings, and I don’t even want to speculate on piercings or tats in other areas.  Maybe that’s why he ended up a stock boy at Target instead of a Chippendale’s dancer.

I have to wonder how many tats are inspired by a little too much drinky-drinky?

I Don’t Need No Stinking Brackets! Next Time, Try the Oprah Channel!

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Ok, now I’m pissed.  Last night I was denied my fix of  World’s Dumbest due to freaking basketball. Why take away my TruTV- one of my favorite channels, that is normally gloriously devoid of all things sport- and have basketball instead of  World’s Dumbest?  Why can’t they put the extra sports (yes I know it’s March Madness- it’s all I hear from Jerry and it’s all I hear at work) on the Oprah Channel or some other channel I don’t watch, like the Fishing Network or better yet, one of the 8 different ESPNs?  The only thing about putting sports games on the Oprah Channel is that little old bitties like my Mom would probably have a coronary.  Mom needs gossip, scandal and treacly pathos like a fish needs to be in water.   Then again, there’s always the Hallmark Channel if you want to watch those dreadful tear-jerker chick flicks that Mom adores, but I just plain can’t stand. 

To be fair, TruTV did air two episodes of World’s Dumbest before the games were supposed to start, but it really disturbs my little world when it’s Thursday night and I don’t get a new episode of World’s Dumbest.  I know, I need to either get a hobby, or better yet, get a life.  I did make use of the time to watch a documentary on the reasons why the Titanic failed on National Geographic Channel, so at least I learned something.  I also cleaned up and defragged my home computer, which kept me offline last night, but thankfully it’s a LOT faster this morning.  It’s old, and I’d love to have one of those new tablet PCs, but I can’t afford a new one.  I can’t even afford a memory card and/or an external hard drive for the one I have.  So from time to time I have to houseclean and defrag it, otherwise it would be so stinking slow it wouldn’t matter whether I have Roadrunner or not.  Since I am paying out the wazoo for both premium cable and Roadrunner, I might as well get my use out of both of them.

I am hoping for a very quiet and sports-free weekend. 

Jerry of course will be watching all the basketball and NASCAR, etc. he possibly can all weekend, but this is the beauty of having two TVs.  I’ll either be catching up on my napping, or I’ll be watching the Discovery Channel, Science Channel, History Channel, National Geographic, etc. whilst he is being occupied with sports.

I have come to the conclusion that the Thinking Woman is a rather rare beast.  I’m talking about women who take the a predominantly rational approach to life rather than a predominantly emotional approach.  Most women (even the prevailing emotionally dominant types) are more intelligent than most men.  When I say Thinker, I’m not referring to intelligence per se, but to a method for getting through life.   For those who are familiar with the Myers-Briggs test, there are Feelers- people who act primarily on their emotions, and there are Thinkers, who act primarily on logical thought.  Neither of these orientations is right or wrong, better or worse- they’re just different perspectives and ways of operating. Most women are Feelers, while most men are Thinkers, at least according to the minds behind Myers-Briggs.  From experience I would have to say I agree with that general assertion, though I know there are exceptions.  Jerry is more emotional than any woman I’ve ever encountered, and I’m probably the least emotionally driven person I know.

I’ve taken the Myers-Briggs.  Twice.  Both times the result was the same.  My type is INTP, which really is no surprise, especially the Thinking and Introverted elements.  I am about as warm and fuzzy as a tire iron. 

I enjoy time with people (sometimes) but I prefer one-on-one discourse instead of being in a crowd- especially if the group is loud.  Most of the time I’d really rather be by myself.  If there’s something I need to do, leave me alone and let me do it.  I have a really hard time with group projects.  I don’t mind doing my fair share…but let leave me alone and let me do it.

There are all sorts of entertainments for the Feeling Woman out there- Oprah, Hallmark, Home and Garden, TV talk shows, those dreadful chick magazines like Cosmopolitan, ad nauseam.  The Thinking Woman gravitates toward some of the same stuff as Thinking Men- true crime, documentaries, history, and so forth, but most of us really can’t get wrapped up in sports.  The Thinking Man embraces all the players’ names, team names, standings, statistics and all that sort of crud that would just clog up my brain.  It wouldn’t be crud to me if I were interested in sports, but I’m not, so it doesn’t make any sense for me to memorize any of that stuff.  I did find out amidst all the March Madness banter that there is actually a college named Morehead.  I normally don’t feel sorry for cheerleaders, but I feel sorry for the Morehead cheerleaders.  Believe that.

I know I am not the only Thinking Woman out there, but I’ve not met very many in my lifetime. 

I know the basketball deluge is only temporary, but I’ll be glad when I get to go back to my Thursday night new episode of World’s Dumbest.