Sex, Death, Rock-n-Roll- and It’s Eternity In There

November 10, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I never really made it a point to contemplate the paradox of sex and death. Perhaps someone ten years (and more, sadly) removed from the enjoyment of carnal pleasure isn’t qualified to comment, but I still live, breathe and dream. I have desires whether I can act on them or not.

The French have a way of making things that can sound vulgar in English a little more mysterious and exotic. A ménage a trois doesn’t sound as bad as a threesome, even though it means exactly the same thing. So while calling an orgasm la petite mort (the little death) can seem a bit melodramatic and bordering on morbid, it is certainly apropos.

These things usually hit me when I least expect it, if not in unbidden memories, then in dreams.

Old Dr. Freud would be having a heyday with my dreams. The things I find myself embroiled in (in dreams, that is) that would leave me shocked and mortified in the waking world are beyond the pale. Which may be why they are safely relegated to dreams. The things I imagine are just too impossible for reality, and I will not attempt to chronicle them here.

Yes, Dream. After Dream (the Journey album) is awesome. My dreams are just bizarre. And rated X.

Many years ago, Stephen King wrote a short story called The Jaunt. It was about a scientist who discovered a virtually cost-free way to teleport people through time and space. The only problem is that living things would die shortly after being “jaunted”- unless they were put under anesthetic. At the end of the story, the man telling the story to his children awakes in horror as his son went through the Jaunt awake- and the son had aged by decades and decades and gone quite mad, before he dropped dead.

Before the son dropped dead his last words were, “It’s eternity in there.”

Of course The Jaunt’s version of eternity isn’t a positive one, so it’s probably not the best illustration of that moment where time stands still and the universe is simply two, but it’s a similar concept. There is a dimension beyond time, for good or ill.

When I was growing up I was given the impression that sex was The Ultimate Sin and the only thing worse than utilitarian procreational-only married sex is murder. It didn’t help that Mom is old-school Catholic (and I mean pre-Vatican II) and Dad is more or less a lapsed Regular Baptist. Both of their traditions will drill it in your head that you are better off dead than to have sex and enjoy it.

Yes, Christians are hypocrites, just like everyone else.

Good “Christian soldiers” are allowed to have sex only if they are married to each other, the lights are out, the only position is man-on-top missionary style, they only do it because they’re trying to make a baby, and they aren’t allowed to enjoy it.

We did what? For that? Why?

Since I never really had a desire to go out and kill people, (at least not a desire to kill anyone that overrides my fear of arrest and inevitable incarceration) then for me, sex was the only “mortal sin” that had any allure to it. And it had a LOT of allure to it when I was younger. I freely admit it. I just had a really hard time finding suitable, complicit males. That was probably a blessing in disguise, and nature’s way of chlorinating the gene pool to some extent.

I’m not into carpooling, because I’d rather “ride with Hitler” than with the friendly neighborhood serial killer. I like having my car all to myself.

My son doesn’t get the sex=mortal sin concept because I made a conscious effort not to represent it to him that way. My mother may have given me the “dirty duty” speech, but I didn’t pass that along, except for comedic effect, when he was much, much older.

The more a parent makes a “forbidden fruit” sound absolutely vile and horrible, the more likely the offspring are to run right out and try it to see if it’s as horrible as Mom and Dad contend. As much as possible, I tried to give him the rational approach to life, as in yes, sex is good, but with certain boundaries. Such as “try not to bang ex-strippers,” “wrap that rascal,” and “avoid venereal diseases.”

So where did they get it? The dance hall?

There is good reason for caution in the pursuit of all things amorous. The 1980s taught us that the anti-sex crowd had a point: sex with the wrong partner can kill you.

I guess once they give you AIDS, retribution is sort of pointless.

For centuries humanity has known the fear and shame of venereal diseases, and the possibility of a lifetime of pain or even an untimely death for a moment of pleasure are quite real.

Even given the potential risks involved with sexual congress, I don’t think I can agree with the lights-out missionary-position sex-for-procreation-only crowd. I do believe in caution in guarding one’s body as well as one’s heart and spirit, but not in total denial.

There is a certain distasteful and soul-killing element in the “friends with benefits” mentality, just as there is a distasteful and soul-killing element in the outright rejection of something that is a gift and a blessing in the proper context.

When the person and the moment is right, surrender to that universe of two. Savor, enjoy, revel, and live, and thank God for that rare opportunity.

It’s eternity in there.

“Normal?” – Not My Relatives! Wanna Pet My Kid’s Skunk?

October 27, 2015Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Yes. It’s a skunk. Yes. It is sleeping atop my offspring.

I am more of a dog person than anything. I like cats too, and I have cats, but to me there is nothing like the relationship one can have with a dog.

I have no idea what got the POMC started in on skunks, other than he really doesn’t connect with cats, and he’s somewhat freaky about dogs. He was dog bit rather severely when he was nine. His right hand might look normal now, but that dog chewed it up like burger meat and he has permanent nerve damage. Dogs have pretty much given him the creeps ever since, which really sucks.

He had ferrets in high school, much to my mother’s disgust, because ferrets have a funk. Even I can smell ferret funk, which means they must smell pretty nasty to most people. Odor aside, they just never really thrilled me much. I’ve heard them described as “cat snakes,” which is about right. Dinky, sneaky little bastards as far as I’m concerned.

In the skunk’s defense, he is de-scented and the only thing about him that really smells is his shit. Skunk shit is nasty, nasty, nasty. The skunk himself, however, is very clean and doesn’t really have a smell to him.

Even so, I’d rather deal with a dog or a cat. Skunks have sensitive digestive systems and special nutritional needs. They have to have their food specially prepared (sort of like feeding a toddler) unlike a dog or cat who can eat prepackaged dog or cat food and be cool with it. It’s also a real pain in the hiney to find a vet who will deal with skunks. Their anatomy and physiology is nothing like dogs or cats, so the vets that will work with them generally cost up the wazoo.

Most vets don’t want to see anything that isn’t a cat or a dog. I can’t say I blame them.

Skunks are a vector for rabies in the wild, which is enough to scare off most people from owning them. However, the truth is that the only way for any mammal to get rabies is to be bitten by something with rabies. Domestic, captive born skunks don’t have rabies, and won’t get rabies unless something with rabies bites them. Captive born and kept indoors, skunks are just as safe to keep as a pet (and not a rabies risk!) as an indoor cat.

Harmless as Jezebel? I don’t give my indoor cats rabies shots because there’s no way for them to get bitten by something that’s rabid.

The dogs do get rabies shots because a.) they go outside and therefore in theory can be bitten by something rabid, and b.) state law requires it.

I am one of those weird people who can really go off on bizarre tangents at times. I bought – and read with fascination- this book some while back- Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus.. It’s a compelling read on a rather off the wall subject. I will have to let the illustrious offspring borrow this one if he’s in the mood for some enlightening late night reading. Of course my tastes in literature are mostly non-fiction (science and history) and often tend to gravitate toward the macabre.

I don’t think I have one “normal” relative. Not one. My son passes for normal most of the time, but they are all certifiable.

Mom is probably the one that’s the closest to the cuckoo’s nest- she’s bi-polar with a heaping helping of anxiety, OCD, and extreme naïveté to go along with it. Jerry is a laundry list of fun beginning with adult ADHD, Helpless Man syndrome, and ending with a rip roaring case of what I call “functional drunk.”

Dad’s gotten a lot more fun since he’s gotten old. It wouldn’t surprise me that like his own father he decides now that he’s 70 years old that, “I’m not old. I’m middle aged.” Nobody had the heart to tell Grandpa when he turned 70 that it was highly unlikely he’d see 140, but he did live to be 91. I guess it’s all about your attitude.

There’s a phenomenon with some older people where their frontal lobe (the “traffic cop” of the brain) sort of wears out and doesn’t screen one’s conversation as thoroughly as it once did, or probably should.

So Dad, who used to be rather tight-lipped and taciturn, has gotten rather cheeky as he ages. His oh-so scathing commentary is starting to remind me of my grandmother and great-grandmother (ironically my mother’s mother and grandmother, go figure) and it’s a hoot. It drives Mom nuts, on the rare occasion she actually gets the reference and/or the double entendre. I’m glad that most of the time it goes over her head, for her own sanity and well being.

Mom has her own special brand of near-senility which is even more creepy than my Dad flipping off traffic. She has always gravitated to the mega-weird parts of Catholicism which is downright scary, but the older she gets the more she watches EWTN, goes to Mass and Confession, and is grabbing on that rosary. Normally I would say religious disciplines would be a good thing, but she gets Really Weird with it. She thought that if she left EWTN on all the time full blast that the POMC would see the Catholic light and become a priest. Never mind that he’s pretty much agnostic and really creeped by “men in dresses.”

To top that off, she’s also blithely ignorant that it’s really, really gauche to ask someone who is a confessional Lutheran and who has done a lot of theological and spiritual soul searching to come on down to the Catholic cathedral to venerate some dead saint’s bones. Apparently the Catholic school she went to didn’t teach too much about Martin Luther, the 95 Theses, and the Reformation.

I had to decline the bone-gazing and necromancy out of conscience, but as far as she knows I declined because I had to do laundry. I’d rather tell a little white lie – though I really did do laundry- than go through a detailed theological dissertation on why I don’t venerate saints’ bones. I don’t need to hurt her feelings.

Even the POMC is borderline OCD. His car and motorcycle both are testament to that.

Both of my sisters could be called “castrating bitches,” due to the fact that they both can run a man like a railroad.

And here I sit with my own frailties and funky wiring.

Time Passages, Necessary Evils, and Random Mental Excursions

October 8, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Or not. Preferably not.

I don’t want to change any more shitty diapers in my life. I did enough of that when my illustrious EX mother-in-law decided to let my then-20 month old son go through an entire box of graham crackers in an afternoon.

Suffice to say that the graham crackers pretty much didn’t do much to prevent my son from partaking in the “evil” of self-abuse, (face it people, all boys masturbate whether they admit to it or not,) but they did much to make him shit like a horse for a week straight.

Tall Stack of Graham Crackers

Once you’ve had to power wash your kid, Clorox his jammies and the bed sheets every day for a week because he wakes up with the entire bed coated in used graham crackers that have made their way down the good ol’ Hershey Highway, the whole hosing-shit-off-bloody-everything routine gets extremely old. I did have a number of choice pejoratives for my evil ex-mother-in-law, but in her defense, her head never was screwed on quite right. Suffice to say she was never left alone with the POMC again. To this day he is scared shitless (oh, what a relevant metaphor!) of that harpie, even though he was only three the last time he ever even saw her. If she’s still alive- and if only the good die young she’ll live to be 900- she’s well in her 80s. As long as she stays away from me, I truly don’t care where she is, how old she is, or what she does with herself.

I can’t imagine changing diapers for any of my adult relatives. Though it may sound callous, if you can’t make it to the crapper or wipe your own ass, the nursing home is calling your name. I’m weird enough about people touching me, let alone having to touch other people in ways I don’t even want to contemplate.

I understand that the people at the nursing home will have to hose off your carcass from time to time, but 1.) they are getting paid to do it, and 2.) they have a ready supply of disposable gloves.

I was probably the only child who was grateful for a teacher or parent’s admonition to a group of children to “keep your hands and feet to yourself.” Anything that will keep the little snot spewers from fingering me or violating my personal space is a good thing. When I was growing up, people usually only made physical contact with me to slather nasty things on me, throw live stinging insects in my hair, or to kick my ass. I am wary for a reason.

I can’t tolerate itchy, inflexible or binding clothing against my skin. Ever. I still have bad memories of 70’s polyester and those God-awful pantsuits Grandma made for us out of that stuff. Grandma was a fantastic seamstress, but if you create clothing out of fabric that is more like Teflon than cashmere, it’s not going to be comfortable. Mom would add itchy lace socks and turtlenecks to these pantsuits and I literally got welts all over from both the friction and the heat generated by those purgatorial ensembles. 70’s polyester was HOT as well as being inflexible and itchy. It did NOT breathe.

Lord, deliver us from these horrible garments!

I can’t move my LEG!!!

Even denim was problematic back in the day, as you pretty much had to drive over a pair of jeans, then wash them several times in flaming hot water with bleach, then dry them for a few hours with some marbles thrown in for fun. Otherwise the skin-tight (no spandex…) denim would be so crunchy and rigid that breathing was almost as impossible as bending at the knees, or sitting.

Just Don’t Bend Over.

Another drawback of 80’s clothes is that you had to iron just about everything, including the (usually) cotton oxford shirts. Cotton breathes, which is a plus, but those oxford shirts are a bitch to iron. Of course, not liking itchy or crunchy things, I was never a big fan of starch.

Enough With the Size 2 Models, and Persistence Is Not Always a Virtue

September 17, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I think “she’s” a chick. Maybe.

Just a thought to share with the purveyors of apparel and fashion designers out there:

The average woman who buys your wares is NOT completely flat chested, is NOT 6’2″, is NOT 100# or less, and does NOT wear a size 2. Many thirteen year old BOYS fall into those categories (of being flat-chested, tall, and super thin), and I understand that many men called to the fashion industry aren’t exactly straight, but please, remember who your customers are.

Just because that dress might look good on a thirteen year old boy, (or on my 24 year old who’s about 6’1″ and maybe 140..but don’t get any ideas, because he doesn’t swing that way) that doesn’t translate into looking good on the average 40-something cougar with a body ravaged by time and stress and childbirth.

Here’s what real women look like. Heads up, boys. Meaning “boys,” as in “Boy” George, I presume.

The average woman who buys your wares DOES have these things springing from her chest area called breasts, otherwise known as tits, fun jugs, bazongas, hooters, and/or boobs. Those of us with rather large things springing from our chests need to wear an item of clothing known as a BRA, not as a decoration, but as a functional support device, preferably one with suitably wide straps so as not to leave divots in our shoulders, to keep those things from hitting our knees as we perform our daily functions.

This being said, sleeveless garments of any type are generally not acceptable for the meaty-armed set unless they look good worn with a t-shirt underneath. Please try to bear this in mind when designing and marketing clothing for and to us.

Notice how pencil-thin her arms are? This woman has never unloaded trucks, manhandled unruly toddlers, or even picked up something as light as say… a fork!

Also, dresses should come in lengths other than “just below the butt-crack” and “3” past the feet.” Either I buy a dress that is so short I have to wear leggings or tights with it or give the general public a free show that they really don’t want, or I end up chopping and hemming just to keep from stepping all over the son of a bitch. I’m 5’4″, dammit. Neither extreme is a good one, boys. How about a dress that hits me just below the knee? No butt-crack exposure, and no tripping over it. That would be nice.

Now, how about something like this in a size 12- that doesn’t drag the floor?

My grandmother made a lot of her own clothes. She was a far more accomplished seamstress than I am, although I can do the basics. I have two of the dresses she made for herself back in the 1950’s, which fit me relatively well, even though she had a bit more ample chest than me and I’m a bit taller than she was. I don’t have time to make my own clothes, and I don’t have a sewing machine (that was one of Grandma’s things that my oldest sister- who has never sewn- made off with before Dad could hide it.) Otherwise I would. At least I could have dresses made to the proper length, with sleeves, and with enough shoulder and boob room. In a perfect world… all the clothes would have been made in the 1940s.

Not just dresses, HATS! I love hats- and I’m not afraid to wear them!

Steve-o has always displayed the propensity for wisdom beyond his years.

Yesterday he pointed out to me that persistence isn’t always a virtue. Sometimes persistence is the manifestation of obstinate and perverse stupidity. Of course, his perspective on persistence and vexation is colored by being the father of a three year old. Sometimes it takes her (my three year old granddaughter) awhile to realize that throwing fits and screaming will fail to achieve the results she wants. In the three year old’s defense, she’s not stupid. She is beginning to understand when “no” means “no” and when it is unwise to push the issue. That’s a skill that a few more adults need to get- before I throttle them.

Oh, yes, it does.

If I tell you that I can’t get you something, it’s because I can’t get it for you. It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s not because I haven’t tried. It’s because what you want isn’t available for me to get. Get it through your skull. If you feel it necessary to keep ordering the same thing I’ve already told you myriad times is not available, discontinued or otherwise non-existent on Planet Earth, your persistence in requesting the impossible has become a form of stupidity.

So what is the definition of stupidity, friends? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

At least my offspring has a clue.

The Wonderful World of Online Reviews and Other Assorted Subjectivity

September 3, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I never realized just how entertaining Amazon reviews can be. I went trolling online for reviews on a perfume I’ve been thinking about buying. I like fragrances, even though I have to take a French bath in most colognes just to smell them at all. The only ones I can enjoy in slight doses are the really, really strong ones such as Liz Taylor’s Passion, Esteè Lauder’s Youth Dew or Opium. I really like all three of those fragrances, although I don’t dare wear any of them, because Jerry says they all smell like a combination of “nursing home” and bug spray.

***

So in my quest for more subtle scents, I check out the reviews, and stay away from the Dollar Store knock off shelf. I have been assured by more than one person that the dollar store shit that is supposed to smell like Chanel No.5 (and it does- to me) really smells like a combo of Black Flag and drain cleaner.

***

I did find an eau de toilette I found intriguing called Dahlia Noir by Givenchy, which I am going to try in spite of this review-

All I can say to this one is that I’m glad that I’m not “Dave’s” old lady:

2 of 3 people found the following review helpful

It covered up her stink real nice.

By Dave on November 18, 2014

Verified Purchase

I got this for my lady friend. It covered up her stink real nice.

“Dave’s” review notwithstanding, his comment reminded me of something Jerry would say, which sort of swayed my decision toward buying it. I am a believer in stringent personal hygiene, and I’m pretty uptight as far as observing stringent personal hygiene practices at all times. I shouldn’t have a “stink.” Even so, hygiene practices aside, one can’t be too careful about one’s olfactory impact upon others when one’s sense of smell is pretty much transitory and unreliable at best. So I do like to indulge in wearing a sensible and pleasing fragrance- just in case.

***

I’ve never been the outdoors type, and I hate to be dirty or to sweat. So I’ve never really had a need for Vagisil, but if I did, this is the most glowing review I encountered:

18 of 20 people found the following review helpful

This should be in every woman’s first aid kit

By Geekier than thou TOP 1000 REVIEWERVINE VOICE on August 28, 2004

Style Name: Original Size: 1 Ounce (Pack of 1)

It smells like burning fur, but who cares? If you’re out in the middle of the woods camping, or on a forever road trip and you haven’t had a chance to change your drawers in a day or two, chances are, your unmentionable areas are gonna get itchy. Some areas are more sensitive than others when it comes to persistent itching and scratching. Vagisil allows you to temporarily relieve the itch so you can concentrate on driving or sleeping instead of scratching your parts off.

Remind me to never put myself in a position where I don’t get to “change my drawers” and hose off at least from the waist down, Every Freaking Day. Some areas were never meant to be scratched. If my nether area were to itch so bad I can’t drive, I think it’s time to see a doctor, not time to run out and buy some over the counter cream that smells like burning fur.

Too bad a gauge like this doesn’t really exist.

***

I have been accused at many points in my life of being highly subjective in my assessments, which is a bit ironic considering that I tend to be logical and pragmatic rather than emotional and flighty.

***

Perhaps those assertions are based on the fact that I can have rather narrow parameters for passing a judgment or making a decision. I make up my mind very quickly, and usually based upon the information I have on hand that I deem relevant at the moment. I’m not one to hunt and peck or hem-haw around. The only disadvantage to that is that unless I make a conscious effort to do otherwise, I can be very closed minded and unwilling to try new things. I know that a love of the familiar and a desire for order and routine go hand and hand with the way I’m wired, (oh, the joy of navigating the autistic landscape!) and sometimes I have to purposefully override familiarity, order and routine in order to learn anything, or to do anything fun.

***

I think rigid would be a better word to describe my decision making process than subjective.

I realize that my tendency toward rigidity makes spontaneity almost impossible. The older I get, the more difficult spontaneity gets. I’ve been meaning to take that day trip to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia. It’s not necessary for me to take Steve-o with me, which is good because his schedule is nearly impossible (although he would thoroughly enjoy it.) I’m not afraid to travel alone, and have done it before, so what’s the big deal about a 500 mile (one way) road trip?

***

Yes, I would need to book a motel room as well as make my admission arrangements in advance. I would have to see that Jerry takes care of the dogs for a couple of days. They have survived being alone with him before. I’m really good at trip planning, and this one wouldn’t be terribly expensive… so why haven’t I done it yet?

***

True, I have never been to Philadelphia. I am concerned about crime, such as carjacking, rape, robbery etc. because those things happen in densely populated urban areas, but crime is just as statistically likely to happen right here in central Ohio. Granted, I know the times and areas to avoid here, but would the additional risk of being in an unfamiliar urban area be statistically significant? Probably not. I have traveled alone in the rural South which is statistically safer- but if you were to be a crime victim somewhere down in the hollers, let’s just say your body and/or your car may never be seen again.

***

I need to shut up and just go. The medical oddities await.

I Have No Patience Left—– An Open Letter to the Instant Gratification Generation

August 26, 2015Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Like a good number of techie-type people, I generally operate more efficiently (and with a lot less stress) when my interactions with fellow humans are simple, brief and (most importantly) few and far between. The older I get, the less tolerance I have for doling out tedious and lengthy explanations. The pisser is that it seems that the older I get, and the thinner my patience gets, the more stupid (and hence more needy of tedious and lengthy explanations) those around me seem to be.

Perhaps it sounds hard-hearted and/or arrogant of me to point out that the average person is as dumb as a post, but it’s a hard truth. I’ve said it before, and if I knew who came up with the phrase I would credit it, as credit is due: “Intelligence is a constant, the population is growing.” Unfortunately, there are days when I just don’t have it in me to smile and explain the same thing thirty different ways just so that I might have a chance of relaying some tidbit of necessary information into some dullard’s thick skull that he/she might or might not retain for more than five minutes.

It probably doesn’t help that I work in a business in which I have to engage in tedious explanations all day long. I have to explain to people why this goes with this, or why you can’t use that with that, or that such-and-such is discontinued, which means it is no longer being made. Discontinued means what it is you’re looking for is not available (unless you find someone with used or old stock) and it will never be available again. Please get that through your thick skulls, people. There’s a reason why you can’t get all-weather floor mats for an ’86 Chevette. It may have something to do with the fact that if there were a surviving ’86 Chevette in Central Ohio, it would be very unlikely to still have floors. Deal. Better yet, move up into the 21st century.

These just didn’t have the appeal of chicken nuggets apparently.

Either that or they hadn’t come up with the hot mustard sauce yet.

The problem with having to tell people that they can’t always get what they want, is that unlike MIck Jagger and company, I have to listen to the asinine reactions of the instant gratification generation when their desires are unable to be fulfilled. All Day Long. it wears on my brain.

Another thing that wears on my brain is the upcoming contingent of warm bodies emerging from (so-called) institutions of higher learning. I’ve said it for years that political correctness is poison, and that there will be hell to pay for mollycoddling and insulating kids from anything difficult or challenging. Face it, in the real world there is no medal for 12th place.

Not in my world. Or yours, either.

Now that particular dirty bird- the concept that one is “special” simply due to being vertical and metabolizing valuable oxygen- is coming home to roost, and it’s really sad. Now we have people getting all butt-hurt over any kind of controversy or discourse- and people who are unwilling to accept the truth when it’s right out in the open, if that truth reflects the fact that there are inherent inequalities between people because let’s face it, life ain’t fair.

Hypothetically, I may have had a life’s goal to be a center in the NBA. (No I didn’t, but this is a hypothetical scenario.) The only problems with that goal are the realities: 1. I am as white and Anglo-Saxon as a person can possibly be and live. 2. I have physical motor deficits. 3. I’m female. and 4. I’m 5’4″. Rather than lament that I can’t be a center in the NBA due to forces outside of my control, is it not in my best interest to choose a vocation that is better suited to my biological reality? Why should I feel compelled to change my biology or to whine and cry that it’s not fair that white, uncoordinated, short females (who really aren’t even interested in basketball) can’t be centers in the NBA?

College campuses are no longer institutions of learning, where debate and open thought are encouraged. They have become centers of artificially inflamed outrage over everything from perceived racial slurs to “gender inequality.” Hmm, last time I checked, “race” is something different cultures pretty much made up. There’s plenty of different ethnicities and colors, but only one human race. There are generally two sets of human genitalia, and you either have one or the other. It’s pretty rare (and not usually natural) to have both.

I wonder what they’re pissed about now. Most places have a “mystery gender” bathroom somewhere.

My first reaction to the “ooh, everything offends my precious little self,” is, “what kind of horse shit is this?” Then I remember my grandfather mocking the hippie generation for “going off to find themselves.” His contention was that you shouldn’t need to “find yourself” if you’re sitting right in front of your face.

“The Emperor’s New Clothes” is one of my favorite Aesop’s Fables. I’m dating myself in admitting that I ever read such archaic children’s literature (today the Aesop’s Fables collection would prove far too “damaging” to impressionable young children and their precious little self-esteems,) but there were some valuable life lessons in those stories. There were important lessons in those stories, such as, “the world doesn’t revolve around you,” and “actions have consequences.”

The emperor (and I’m not just referring to Obama, but the fact that someone of his level of extreme ineptitude and overwhelming vapidity is in a position of power and influence is an ominous sign of the times) has been stark raving naked for a long time.

Let’s call the truth the truth, and clean up the political correctness bullshit before Orwell’s visions become fulfilled in their entirety.

Deep and Philosophical Questions- Or Not!

August 8, 2015Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I just about spit coffee out my nose when I saw this meme.

Which one will last longer? My carcass or an unopened Twinkie?

It is fabled that Twinkies will last over thirty years if unwrapped, but the official word from the Hostess company is that they only have a shelf life of 45 days. I may only have a shelf life of 45 days. Who knows?

Jerry has a thing for Twinkies right now, which is good because at least there is something he will eat. I’ve never seen anyone as picky about food in my life. I shouldn’t lose my patience so easily with him because I know he is dealing with chronic pain and illness, but sometimes he can really get on my last nerve. I don’t play well with others to begin with, so I have to cut him some slack. It helps if I get a bit of ivory tower time so I can recharge and don’t have to be constantly on guard. That’s my particular weakness- I can only deal with the rest of humanity in very small doses. Age and time is not improving that peculiarity of mine at all. If anything I need more time alone to simply stay sane, and that is a disturbing trend.

I don’t know it all. But shutting up is usually a default for me. I’m really good at the silent treatment.

Jerry went to the campground and won’t be back until tomorrow. So I am enjoying a little secret pleasure of blasting some Metallica (which he can’t stand.) Normally I am not a hard core metal head- but I have my moments. I’ll probably switch back to some Journey or some of Neal Schon’s solo stuff in awhile to mellow out. But for now, I am having some fun with James Hetfield asking the question, “Am I Evil?” Yes. Humanity is evil. There you go.

James Hetfield can actually sing rather than scream.

Smokin’ the Reefer…

I think weed should not only be legal, they should just hand it out randomly. Pass it around like the junk mail circulars one gets in the mail every day. Why? Do potheads go out and commit random crime? Hell no. They get mellow, call the pizza dude, eat everything in the fridge and then blissfully pass out. Nice and mellow and thank God, quiet. Potheads aren’t out there doing violent crime. They’re on the couch, laughing their ass off to whatever History Channel documentary (the all- Hitler-all-the-time-network, I think sometimes) or whatever Monty Python flick they can find on Netflix. Until they pass out at about 8 or 9 pm. That’s my kind of partier.

I can’t wait for the state of Ohio to get with the 21st century and legalize pot. I don’t care for pot at all- it makes me tired and hungry and depressed. I’ve not bothered with pot since I was in college back in the 80s. I have a hard enough time staying awake without smoking something that puts me to sleep. I never enjoyed the pot buzz, but I can clearly see the advantages of smoking pot for people like Jerry who are both hyper and deal with chronic pain. It could even help with him chronically being an asshole late at night. Smoking a nice big bowl of ganga might be enough for him to settle down and shut up and pass out early so I can get some sleep. I don’t do late nights worth a shit, and I’m really tired of getting woke up at all hours of the night listening to him whine and bitch- and play Eminem.

Reason #11-

So Jerry can get high, pass out early and I can get some mother effing sleep!

Dismay? Silent Pragmatism? Disgust? Futility?- Or Just a Normal Day?

August 6, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

There is much to be said for regularity.

I don’t know if I should be happy, sad or just pragmatic as usual. I stopped believing in all the “happily ever after” bullshit when I was about four and first came to the realization that I am not that princess in the pretty cartoon- just an awkward, troll-proportioned, scared-shitless, nearsighted wearer of threadbare hand-me-downs. I may have upgraded the faςade over the years, but facts are facts. Cinderella may have had a benefactor, but there was never going to be a “fairy godmother” in my world. I’m glad I came to the realization that I am not one of the golden people early on.

Take what you can get and be satisfied, because in order to be successful at fishing, one has to have bait. And I never did.

Speaking of what can be trolled up from the depths, I learned why I am loathe to take time off from work even though I have way too many vacation days, and I usually don’t take them. I took two sanity days- Tuesday and yesterday- and made the mistake of thinking that I might actually get some sleep yesterday. I should have known that Jerry’s main goal in life is to drink as much beer as he can and to keep me awake whenever possible at all costs. I don’t know how to react to yet another late night of “let’s get drunk and stupid and loud and play Eminem (barf, gag, retch) full blast until 2 AM.” Dismay? Silent pragmatism? Disgust? Anger? Frustration? Futility? And it strikes me really odd that a 58 year old could get into someone as banal and potty mouthed as Eminem. Even Steve-o got disillusioned with Eminem rather quickly- and this was when the illustrious Steve-o was about 12.

I give the .357 to no one. Nor do I let them know where it’s stashed.

Even when I’m feeling like being banal, the worst I can stomach is the Ramones, or maybe Steel Panther (they’re crude, but in a funny way)- and never in the middle of the night.

Ok, so they’re known for a song called “Gang Bang at the Old Folks Home.” At least that’s funny.

The rational side of my brain asks me (and often) why in the flying hell I stay married to an impotent, beer-soaked asshole who generally treats me like shit. The rational side answers back, “because I can’t afford to leave,” which is partially true. It wouldn’t be true, however, if I weren’t paying for a lot of his stuff such as groceries, scripts, health insurance, etc. and so on. Generally the emotional side doesn’t have much commentary other than to know that the whole business of relationships is pretty much a dead issue for me. If I had sufficient cash I’d live alone- and probably should.

Cats ask few questions, and demand so little.

Never confuse “love” with “heat seeking.”

I shouldn’t even let the emotional side of my brain get in on the discussion, because the only emotion I can bring myself to feel for Jerry anymore is pity. I know he has rheumatoid arthritis and pulmonary fibrosis and he needs a lot of help just to function. On one side it would be cruel and possibly even un-Christian to simply abandon him, but on the other, I can really see where I’m chained to dead weight.

Monday (8-10) is our 20th anniversary. I am not in a celebratory mood. About the only reaction I’m having to that is that I find it hard to believe I’ve pretty much thrown away 20 years. But on the plus side…wait…I’m trying to think of a plus side. That should keep me busy for awhile.

I should have spent more time alone. Weird thing to say, but in my case, probably true.

I can’t change the past but I can try to find ways to amuse myself now so I don’t completely go nuts.

Sometimes I just can’t tell.

Politically Incorrect, Fashion Forward, and More Things I Shouldn’t Do

July 28, 2015Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Sometimes I have to wonder when I see old people wearing stuff like this. I’d bet Nixon was in office the last time this dude gave a mustache ride. The chick in the “virgin” t-shirt probably lost it sometime around V-E Day. Do they really read the t-shirts, or do they just put something on because it’s clean? Or do they just put something on because they’re going to be painting, or varnishing, or prancing around in dirty things so they really don’t care?

When I wear snarky t-shirts (and I wear them a lot) I usually have my snark-effect planned out. I want people to wonder when they see me in a shirt that says, “Only Trust People Who Like Big Butts, They Cannot Lie.” The “big butt” comment is even funnier when the reader of the shirt realizes that I am, shall we say, “bootily challenged.” I have the flattest, most non-existent white-bread ass on the planet. Except maybe for my illustrious son.

If that’s the story behind these oldsters’ fashions, more power to them. Keep ’em wondering.

For the younger set, Nixon was in office from 1969-1974. As far as American presidents go, Nixon gets a bad rap. The dude was a choir boy compared to Bill Clinton, and a veritable saint when compared to the current illegitimate occupant of the White House. But get me started on the detestable Barry O., and my rants can go on for days.

V-E Day (the day Allied victory was won in Europe) is May 8, 1945. The more I think about it, I bet a lot of people lost their virginity on V-E Day. I can’t really correlate Nixon’s presidency with mustache rides, (I know when I think “sexy,” Richard Nixon doesn’t come to mind) other than to comment that in the 1970’s almost all VD was curable.

Sit on your ass and keep your mouth shut. That’s not terribly heroic, but it is 100% effective in preventing all forms of VD!

I wonder if it is considered offensive to refer to Germans as “Huns” (generally a WWI reference) or “Krauts” (generally a WWII reference) or is it OK to use either term- because Germans are white?

I know that the term “Cracker” is considered derisive (in some circles) when directed at white people from the American South, but when did it become gauche to make fun of rednecks? It seems rednecks are the only socio-ethnic group that it’s OK to malign.

It’s time to stop worrying about offending people.

Speaking of which….In spite of myself, I really like Donald Trump. I don’t know if I would really want him to be President (although I would gladly prefer my dead dog Sheena over the current illegitimate squatter) but I do like him speaking the truth and rocking the boat. HIs politically incorrect approach is refreshing, if nothing else. There are people who need to be offended, and who need to have their heads pulled out of their asses. If we haven’t learned anything else from the debacle of the Obama Administration, we should know that we need to call a turd a turd. Those who don’t get it that the “Emperor” is naked – as well as being morally bankrupt and an aider and abettor of terrorism to boot- richly deserve a wake up call. If Trump accomplishes that, more power to him. The only thing I don’t want to see is a replay of Ross Perot, who in a roundabout way (another 20th century history lesson, kiddies) bought us eight long years of Bill Clinton.

If it’s cylindrical, brown, and left by the cat, it is best to assume the item is NOT a Tootsie Roll.

My cats are generally really good about using their boxes, and most cats are unless you let the boxes go too long or the cat is sick or something. Healthy cats usually don’t have much trouble shitting where they’re supposed to. Of course, the cats have the basement to themselves, with a small (too small for dogs) cat door so they can come and go downstairs as they need,.

I didn’t generate this meme. I’m enough of a grammar Nazi to know that the author should have used “to” instead of “too.”

Still, it’s a good point.

I can use the men’s locker room and watch the sausage show. Or not. It would be my luck that the guys who wear Speedos but who should be wearing Bermudas would be showering. I’d get a big old eyeful of something like this:

Better for me to shower in the women’s – and dress modestly behind the curtain.

Opinions, Assholes, and Whatever Floats Your Boat

July 1, 2015Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I can’t help it. But if the cars/owners involved were Camaros or Corvettes, that would be even funnier.

I don’t think that I will ever be shocked again. It’s been awhile since anything really shocked me. There aren’t too many things that really rattle me. The problem is that the things that do rattle me really rattle me.

With the exception of rare genetic or congenital anomalies, gender is male or female.

Pick one. Preferably the one that matches your plumbing.

I can’t say that I am celebrating in the streets or bathing my profile pic in a rainbow colored filter on Facebook. Nor am I shouting doom and gloom and proclaiming the end of the world because now Adam and Steve (or Annie and Eve) can get “married.” Personally I believe that same sex relations are wrong in any context (and to me, positively vile)- but so are opposite sex relations out of their proper context (but I’ve been there with the heterosexual fornication and done that, hypocrite that I can be.) I am not the Judge, nor do I want to be. I’m guilty of “doing it wrong” too, just in a different way.

Two dudes. Wonder who will clean up the piss splatters around the john?

However, I don’t make a hobby of rubbing my straightness in everyone’s face and Making Them Like It. I even use the term straightness almost lightly, as “asexual” is probably closer to what I am now. I really don’t have any desire for physical contact with anyone. I don’t like strange people touching me, and it’s been more years than I’d like to admit since I did anything other than sleep (or watch TV) in bed. The older I get the more averse to such things I become.

Even so, if you have found your “soulmate,” and you want to have at it like rabbits in heat, whether it be male, female, mechanical, inflatable, or gerbil, I don’t care. Maybe I am a bitter, old, frustrated bitty, but I just don’t want to hear about it. That’s in the same category as wondering whether or not your grandparents still have sex. Some things should remain a mystery.

I don’t care if you have the hots for a ’93 Ford Escort. I really don’t care how people get their jollies for the most part, or who they choose to land in bed with, or why.

It only bothers me when you expect me to call it normal.

You celebrate your holidays, I’ll celebrate mine.

I do have to wonder about the World Rabies Day thing. Is this observation a call to inform people about rabies and to prevent the spread of rabies? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to celebrate Rabies, but there are some real freaks out there.

In all seriousness, I don’t believe anything good or healthy is going to come out of legalizing same-sex marriage. I don’t think it’s healthy to teach children that this an acceptable lifestyle. I don’t want my grandchild witnessing gay groping and make-out fests in public. Celebrating same-sex attraction to me is sort of like celebrating heart disease or cancer- or getting excited about rabies. We know things like heart disease or cancer or some things that some people do in the bedroom (gay OR straight) are not good for you, and eventually any of those things can kill you- but then human beings can be destroyed by things that society has traditionally condoned.

For instance, overwork can kill you- (been really close to that one) but nobody has ever gone to great lengths to morally condemn those who live to work even though that can be just as much idolatry- and positively poison to your physical, spiritual and mental health as anything else. Nobody really puts up an argument to exclude or demonize the addicted-to-work. Especially when that work-addicted person is doing your work for you.

Overeating can kill you- and gluttony is a sin- but do we actively seek to exclude and shame the fat? If fat shaming really worked, we would be a nation of Calista Flockharts, and I don’t see that happening.

Fanny is allowed to experience the feline lifestyle. Fat and lazy is OK- for cats.

Perhaps the silver lining in the gay marriage movement is maybe the whole gay pride in-your-face attitude will become passé and less “trendy” now that it’s legal. Nothing serves so much as a buzz kill than making something once forbidden legitimate.

Maybe that’s why I pretty much gave up binge drinking by age 23.

Sometimes Mom does not realize the absolutely horrendous double entendre she brings up.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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assorted rants