A Friendly User’s Guide, Can You Read a Map? and Life Lesson# 384

September 16, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

You’re doing it wrong…

I can’t really portray myself as the “typical poster child” for people with autism. Even after 10 years of knowing that my strange wiring has a name (whether you call it Asperger’s Syndrome or High Functioning Autism or just plain Being Screwy,) I have a hard time wrapping my head around those descriptives. I don’t want to be labeled, and I don’t want to use a label as an excuse. I hate to admit weakness or vulnerability. My standards are higher than that- but reality is what it is all the same. I have to find ways to cope with the anxiety, the emotional disconnects, and the physical ineptitude that comes with the package. Some days are better than others, but it does get a bit easier with age and time- and by being around those who tolerate my eccentricities.

Most people who know me aren’t really aware that I’m HFA, or have Asperger’s Syndrome, or whatever you want to call it. I’m fine with that, because I have spent decades of my life trying to navigate and function in the “normal” world. Most of the time I can play the “normal” role pretty well, and I’ve learned to either avoid the things that make me look awkward or find ways to deal with them. I also blend into the scenery very well, and if I don’t want to be noticed, I’m not going to be.

Many people associate autism spectrum disorders with the cognitively challenged or with “idiot savants.” While one may be both cognitively challenged and autistic, one can be autistic and not cognitively challenged at all. (Think Albert Einstein or Thomas Edison here, both brilliant innovators and thinkers who were most likely somewhere on the spectrum.) People with high functioning autism can (and often) do things that the “normals” do-get educated, hold gainful employment, have and raise children, and integrate into the rest of society. We might appear to be eccentric or odd or awkward, (and we might even fall down a lot,) but we can and do function. My road map for getting around in this world looks a lot different than yours, but I can make it to the same destinations. Sometimes I can get there faster, but other times I have to take the scenic route. I have to navigate with the map I’ve been given, because it’s the only map I have.

Common knowledge paints a bleak picture of autism- the non-verbal child rocking back and forth, unaware of the world around him or her, rather than the tech geek who might not be a huge fan of socializing but who can design and program and get lost in virtual worlds. Sometimes society sees autism as the image of the “Rainman” character, or as the guy who can play Mozart from memory but can’t control his bowels. The key here is that autism is a spectrum. Some people with autism have incredibly high IQs and extreme cognitive ability. Others are more in the “normal” intelligence range, and some are profoundly mentally challenged. No two people on the spectrum are alike.

All I can say to parents of an autistic child is that there is good life to be had past that diagnosis, and a lot of that good life is what you create it to be. It’s not the end of the world, especially when you refuse to accept excuses and when you think outside the label. In some ways I think my parents’ ignorance of autism worked in my favor, because I was not indulged, mollycoddled or otherwise given a pass on acquiring necessary life skills. I was actually held to a higher standard in most things when compared with my “normal” sisters because I was a voracious reader, had a broad vocabulary, and was capable of academic achievement in many areas.

My parents didn’t know anything about autism, but they knew there were things wrong with me: I could read- anything and everything- before my second birthday, without any coaching or lessons. They didn’t know about hyperlexia- and why should they, when hyperlexia affects 1 in about 50,000 children, and 75% of those are male. They were dealing with one in 200,000. Hyperlexia is a condition exclusive to HFA children, which is another fact they had no way of knowing back in the early 1970s.

I was born in fragile health and had a litany of respiratory and other health problems in early childhood. I was also born as the third child in as many years. Too-close birth spacing, and poor health in infancy and early childhood are associated with an increased likelihood of autism spectrum disorders. It probably didn’t help matters much that my oldest sister (who wasn’t quite three years old at the time) tried to suffocate me with a pillow the day I came home from the hospital. (There are more than one reasons that my son is an only child.)

My parents knew my gross motor skills were abysmal, and even sent me to physical therapy for quite some time. I have very poor balance, as well as severe myopia, and even with vision correction I still have a difficult time with visual-spatial tasks that involve gross motor skills. I was eight years old before I could balance well enough to ride a bicycle.

My parents knew I was deathly afraid of almost everything- a change in routine, strange people, flying insects, you name it, except for dogs. Why I was so comfortable with dogs I’ll never know, but I’m still more comfortable with dogs than with people.

I was prone to panic attacks, and I was taunted and beaten daily by other children (especially my oldest sister) and pretty much was a basket case spaz most of the time- when I wasn’t buried in a book. I had my obsessions with different and often unusual subjects- dogs, murder mysteries, rock and heavy metal music, classical music, all things automotive, and 20th century history.

Though there were bright spots, for the most part, between the anxiety and (later) depression, my childhood was scary as hell.

Even though the tendency to live as a perpetual deer in the headlights becomes less and less marked as I age, anxiety and fear still dominate and define my emotional life. That may sound bleak, but I am not a person who is dominated by emotions. I am governed much more by what I think than by what I feel, which is probably the only reason why I can get out of bed in the morning and step out the door and function without completely freaking out. I do have emotions, but they have to be filtered through and processed through my mind before I can deal with them. Out of necessity this makes me a delayed reactor. I can get through a loved one’s death and funeral and all that and not appear to be fazed by it- but a week or a month or even 20 years later the emotions pour out- some trigger or event or visual sets off the process and I find myself mourning a long ago passing or reliving a long ago trauma. That sucks, but I don’t wear my emotions out for the world to see. I have a hard enough time figuring them out for myself.

I don’t like being physically touched, especially without warning or by strangers. I am not in any way a “hugger.” I will hug when it is socially necessary, but I’m not going to be the one starting it, and the person I’m hugging better be an immediate family member or a very close friend. My discomfort with physical contact might go back to my sisters and their friends’ constantly tormenting me because they knew if they did poke, prod, grab or otherwise contact my person that they would elicit a response. I had a most overpowering and piercing scream that was loud, but not quite loud enough to overpower Mom turning the TV up all the way.

Having live, stinging insects thrown in my hair didn’t help alleviate my disdain of human contact either. I’m not sure if my distaste for physical touch came first or if that distaste was created by the indignities of getting punched, slapped, stepped on and/or the challenge of removing live wasps from my hair without getting stung. I had very long, very thick hair as a child, which made removing foreign objects from it challenging at best. That’s part of the reason why my hair is cut short today. It’s easier to color and it survives my early morning swimming much better too. It’s worth the temporary distress every month or so to keep my hair short. Even now, a routine hair cut or Dr. exam is not my idea of a good time, although I know both are harmless, temporary and necessary.

I have a difficult time with eye contact also. In a way it’s good that I stopped wearing contacts a few years ago and I had to go back to glasses. I never liked the coke bottle thick glasses I had to wear as a kid, but the glasses available today with the plastics aren’t nearly as funky looking. Glasses give me a little something to hide behind. I am awkward at best with eye contact because it does not come naturally for me. Neither does body language. I have to consciously think about those things and what non-verbal messages I’m sending when I’m carrying on a conversation out in public. I don’t always get it right. I don’t get it right a lot of the time, even at my age. “Normal” people get non-verbal communication instinctively, but it’s a mystery to me. Non-verbals are one reason why I prefer to communicate in writing. I am much more comfortable staying in the dimension of verbal language.

I love Cliff’s Notes. Yes, I read the books too, but sometimes highlights are great as a refresher. If I were to write a sort of user’s guide to dealing with me and not being too perplexed while doing so, the Cliff’s Notes version would go sort of like this:

If I’m not looking you in the eye, it’s probably because I forgot I needed to.

I trip and fall easily, so if you notice me hanging onto the rail, or avoiding activities that require balance and coordination, remember, my gross motor skills are rather poor.

Don’t touch me without fair warning- including lint picking and tag stuffing. I would like to be enlightened that I have a tag sticking out, or dog hair on my sleeve, but please let me fix it or remove it.

Don’t be alarmed when I fall off the planet from time to time. I don’t need to be connected to the rest of the world 24/7, and I do disengage from time to time to help preserve my sanity.

Don’t take offense when I take things literally. I appreciate sarcasm as an art form, and I have a wicked twisted sense of humor, but please don’t intentionally make yourself hard to read.

Remember that I’m very poor with non-verbal language, both sending and translating. Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Don’t be surprised when I go down a different tangent. My wiring is different, and sometimes I can associate completely bizarre and different things (that make perfect sense to me) but that don’t make sense to other people.

Please give me some respite from screaming kids, demanding people, and from constantly being “on stage.” I can cope with the “normals,” and I navigate better than I probably should in the “normal” world, but I am still a traveler, not a native.

My primary emotion is “fear.” Thirty years ago it used to be “terror,” so this is improving, but still…thank God for Prozac.

There’s a pill for that…maybe?

A Fair Assessment? and Judgment vs. Mercy

August 30, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I admit I’m biased in favor of life. Especially when I hear of freaks like this. I don’t have sympathy for women who treat their newborns like trash, (or their unborn children, for that matter) especially if they live in states that allow you to turn in a newborn at a hospital or fire station with no questions asked. You might not want the kid, but someone else does. More importantly, that kid deserves some sort of a chance. There are millions of people who can’t have kids of their own for whatever reason who would be delighted to take your “unwanted” child in as their own.

All I can say to that is- unless she is profoundly mentally challenged, or suffering from an extreme mental illness- : selfish bitch.

So you were afraid your parents might think you’re a slut? I can almost understand that mentality from a 12 year old, but from someone who’s 23? Besides, I’d rather my parents think I’m a slut than for them to discover that I’m an attempted murderer.

I was 22 when my son was born. Yes I was (at the time) married to the sperm donor. However, my son was not planned, and the timing was awkward at best. Even so, it wasn’t a difficult choice- my son’s life and well-being took precedence over mine, and my son’s life and well-being definitely took precedence over my sorry excuse of an ex as well as said ex’s mother. That’s a long story and I am not entirely without fault, but even as a rather emotionally impaired specimen, I have some sense of when to do what’s right rather than what appears to be expedient- or even logical.

I’m not even one of those people who is thrilled about being around kids. One on one is OK, but not a whole gang of kids at one time. I have no clue what a normal childhood is supposed to look like other than what I gleaned from the child development charts and so forth that I pored over in the hopes that my child might possibly turn out to be normal– or at least gainfully employed, and not a serial killer. So far- and solely by the grace of God- my sorry parenting seems to have worked out. He does have a job and as far as I know he hasn’t killed anyone. As far as being normal, well, at least he is a good conversationalist, and he has good hygiene. Then again, the same could be said of Ted Bundy, so you never know.

Ted looked normal, but then, sociopaths usually do.

Even though I could never categorize myself as a warm-and-fuzzy mommy, I tried. My son, the precious only male child, did thank me for being a hard ass. That was probably the most rewarding thing he has ever said to me. It’s easy to just capitulate and give your kids what they want and attempt to shelter them from anything that might bruise their precious, fragile self-esteem. It’s hard to say no, to set boundaries, to instill a work ethic, and to adhere to certain moral absolutes, but your kid isn’t supposed to be your “buddy.” Maybe when they’re adults, but not when they are still kids and are still discovering why shampooing one’s hair and brushing one’s teeth daily are essential, mandatory life practices.

Mandatory: not negotiable, and NOT optional!

Our current societal mentality is all about what’s comfortable, what’s easy and what’s disposable. Raising a child is not comfortable, not easy, (not cheap either) and 23 years later, he still “needs mommy” but, thankfully, not in the same way he did as a toddler. I don’t have to bathe him or change shitty diapers, which is definitely a plus.

I don’t think the Roe v. Wade decision did much to make people see that children are valuable, but as heinous as the idea of killing innocent children for convenience sake is, it’s a symptom of a larger, age old problem.

It’s all about the pervasive view that, “It’s all about me,”- the temptation of the Garden. “I can have it all,” or as the serpent in the story tempts Eve- “you will be like God.” (Genesis 3:5)

It won’t make you God, but it will make your life a lot more complicated.

But isn’t hindsight 20/20?

Oh, yeah, we humans want to be our own gods. Believe that. Call it “original sin,” or “the depravity of man,” but that desire is the root and the essence of what’s wrong with humanity and society, and we can’t fix that longing because that’s written into who we are.

I know even though I find certain human actions to be reprehensible, that I am every bit as much a sinner and a violator as anyone else. I don’t have the authority to pass judgment on other people, and I don’t want that authority either. I know all too well that I don’t have much empathy, and I don’t have a high tolerance for stupid behavior. I will comment on the actions of others- and I do have the authority to condemn certain actions, even though I have no way of discerning the thought processes and motives behind those actions.

The only answer I have for that is: Kyrie elaison – God have mercy, Christ have mercy.

Have mercy on us all.

Tuna, Tab and a Twinkie

August 22, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Navin Johnson’s (Steve Martin’s character in the iconic film, The Jerk ) meal that his adopted mother served him on his birthday was a tuna sandwich wrapped in cellophane, a Tab and a Twinkie. Most of my favorite things are like that- simple, cheap and uncomplicated. I share Navin’s enthusiasm for Tab, and I like a good tuna melt from time to time, although I’ve not had a Twinkie in at least ten years.

I’d like to admit to complicated tastes, as in: oh, yeah, I sit around drinking vintage Cabernets and imported cheese while conversing about world history and literature with influential and erudite people. I study some rather obscure and esoteric subjects (have you seen my collection of 19th century postmortem pics, for instance) from time to time, but in social circles, I’m not that good of a performer. I’m not that pretentious. Since I am pathetically socially inept, and not at all well connected, my evenings are usually spent watching Jerry empty out the Natties, go from just a little drunk, to full-on fall-over shitfaced drunk, as he attempts to argue philosophy with the dogs. Jerry is not an eloquent conversationalist even when he’s stone cold sober. Alcohol does not enhance his verbal communication skills.

FYI: Natty does NOT make you an enchanting conversationalist. Ever.

Jerry isn’t the greatest company, but he is predictable at least. He tolerates my eccentricities, which is saying a lot. It’s easier that way, and I don’t have to worry about what to wear or whether or not I am avoiding eye contact again. To him, I’m just the tepid body that pays the cable bill and medical bills, buys food, and wanders around cleaning up the beer cans. He’s doing good to refrain from calling me Mildred and asking me about my diarrhea, but that’s OK. I’ve been married to him for 19 years and neither one of us has succeeded in killing each other or making good on threats made in the heat of anger to leave, so it must be all good.

I don’t know what to make of current events. Robin Williams committing suicide was just plain bizarre, although I can certainly attest to the truth that comedy is the flipside of tragedy. We shouldn’t really be surprised that comedians invariably suffer with depression and all the psychological baggage that goes along with it. Humor is a defense mechanism. Usually the funnier a person comes across, the more tragedy that person has endured. Most of the time I try to laugh to keep from crying- or to fill that awkward void when I just don’t have the words or when that proper, polished façade just doesn’t materialize when I need it to.

This dude must have had some pretty serious childhood trauma to try to rock the Daisy Dukes AND the crop top.

Perhaps it is better to elevate sarcasm to an art form than to take out one’s pain and hurt and anger in more destructive ways. I don’t want to hurt anyone, especially in the ways that I have been. It might be a bit mean-spirited to show pics of people who have made unfortunate fashion/life choices, but hey, you set yourself up for those. If I appeared in public looking like a crack ho, or morbidly obese and/or otherwise badly dressed, then someone posting my sorry ass pic online should be a wake up call, a sort of, “Get your shit together, bi-atch!” statement. I would be asking for it.

Now, going as a Twinkie for Halloween might actually be funny, but I don’t think that was this chick’s intent.

Sort of like a Twinkie, anyway.

Nuts! No Nuts, No Clue, and Screw You Too

August 8, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Naturally good nuts. That’s good, because we wouldn’t want artificial nuts.

Unless you’re the owner of a neutered male dog, and you take his loss of sexual potency way too personally. There are, believe it or not, artificial nuts for neutered dogs.

I’ve never owned a male dog. I’m of the opinion that female dogs generally are smarter, live longer and have fewer overall health problems- even though spaying a female is a lot more expensive and involved than neutering a male. I have encountered more than a few male dogs that would make me hesitate to consider a male dog, but in fairness I’ve also encountered a few that I really liked. I find it really hard to dislike any dog, with the exception of my cousins’ psycho Chihuahua, Andy- but Andy’s been dead for nearly 40 years. If anything, poor Andy was an argument against incessant inbreeding.

You didn’t need them anyway.

I may end up with a male dog someday, but I wouldn’t consider having an intact male, even though neutering doesn’t guarantee placid behavior. Uno, the one-brown, one-blue-eyed, twisted little Shih-Tsu, who used to belong to my mother-in-law, positively tormented poor Isabel (who was a five pound, spayed, elderly, black cat) by chasing her all over the house and attempting to hump her constantly. He was neutered, but that didn’t seem to matter to Uno and his Red Rocket. I was glad when we found that guy a good permanent home- away from Isabel. He was a sweet dog, but humping the cat (aside from being counterproductive) is just plain creepy.

I’ve had three male cats, and they weren’t at all bothered about being nutless. Other than reduced longevity, (and males are bigger) I really don’t see much difference between spayed female cats and neutered male cats. I think the male cats I had were secretly relieved of being culled from the gene pool and therefore set free of the obligation to -well- screw like tomcats.

Thought I was going to post a gratuitous pic of feline copulation, eh?

Since I’m on the subject of nuts, (for what reason I have no idea) I have to comment on the illustrious, nutless wonder who is squatting in the White House. Normally, I can’t stand to listen to Obama speak, and if I feel I must find out what kind of garbage he’s spewing, I just read the transcript later. Unfortunately I was subjected to the Wanna-be-Imperial One’s press conference regarding the Ebola epidemic and his African summit while I was waiting on my car to get serviced at the Toyota dealership. Hindsight being 20/20, I wish that I had remembered my headphones, or that I had decided to wait outside.

Since I sat through every infuriating minute of it, I thought I would offer the rational person’s Cliff’s Notes on this particular address:

Let’s send billions more dollars in “aid” to Africa that will not be (and never is) used to do anything to ameliorate squalor, disease and poverty, but will be squandered on funding terrorists, supporting regional warlords, and empowering garden-variety thugs. While we’re at it, we’re just going to open our borders to every terrorist, scumbag and non-English speaking, uneducated indigent who can manage to traipse on in. Because terrorists need love too? Then the Naked Emperor cries and whines and wonders out loud why American corporations are clamoring to incorporate in foreign countries to avoid the evil IRS and its labyrinthine and oppressive tax system.

Oh, and we can’t send the Ebola medicine to Africa because it’s experimental…and they might die from it. Even though they are almost certainly going to die from the Ebola, why should we try giving a drug that might help? Someone might sue us or something.

Really?

I almost threw up all over the customer lounge. Thankfully by that time, my tire rotation and car wash were done and the service advisor had come to retrieve me. I just hope they torqued my lug nuts to 76 ft lbs. like the owner’s manual suggests.

On the way home I had a few insights on B.O.’s asinine rhetoric.

1. Why are we spending a red dime to support any terrorist harboring country? I don’t give a flying fart in a high wind what’s going on there. It’s not our problem. In fact, as cruel as it sounds, perhaps some of these third world holes could use some thinning of the herd. Especially when foreign aid never seems to get where it’s supposed to go, and the poverty and desolation persists no matter how many billions of dollars are thrown at it.

2. Why do veterans go without medical treatment, and American citizens are taxed so heavily they can’t afford their own healthcare (even though they work for a living) while our government pisses away our tax dollars to support terrorists and others who only want to kill us and send the world back to the Dark Ages? Americans’ money could be better spent on our own infrastructure and military, and to secure our borders against the terrorists and thugs, but what do I know?

3. Why is this illegitimate president still squatting in our White House?

People Are Frustrating and Vexing, but Solitude Brings a Strange Kind of Fun

July 22, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I am not the poster child for things touchy-feely. I loathe strange people touching me (even getting my hair cut is an adventure, though I endure it because I can’t cut my own hair with any degree of accuracy) and generally I’m not too thrilled about being groped by those I do know. Unless they’re dogs, and that’s OK. Why, I don’t know, but dogs are safe, at least for me. Even when I was a little kid and was terrified of the world, from my sadistic oldest sister to unauthorized insect life, I had no problem climbing the fence and snuggling up to a 120# Rottweiler.

It’s not usually the big dogs you have to worry about. Unless you’re up to mischief, that is.

The only dog I can remember having any kind of problem with was Andy the Chihuahua, but he was likely the product of many generations of inbreeding, and from the moment he was whelped he was certifiably messed up in the head. He was my cousins’ dog, and even they couldn’t touch him. It’s a good thing that pathetic little Andy, with his high-pitched, constant and annoying yappy voice, severe underbite and thick cataracts, (I think the wretched thing was born blind) didn’t live past the age of five. I’m surprised he lived as long as he did. I think the only thing that saved him was that he was too evil for the cats to eat him. He reminded me of a wind-up toy with an over-wound spring. Such a toy will go like blue blazes- for a little while- then it just dies suddenly. I think it was reported that poor Andy bit the big one mid-yap. I don’t think he was very much missed.

Andy the psycho Chihuahua is the exception, not the rule in the canine world. Humanity is the exact opposite.

There is a sad irony that I feel safer with animals that technically are the same species as wolves (canis lupus familiaris is not far removed from canis lupus lupus after all) than I do with fellow humans. But I do.

I’ve gathered from my own observations that “normal” people (begging the question, “Who defines ‘normal’?,” though I know I am most certainly anything but “normal”) generally have an easy time relating to other “normal” people. While I’m usually looking for excuses to avoid excessive social interaction, as too much of playing that game wears me out, the “normals” blithely seek out more opportunities to be in each others’ faces. I have to work at the communication game. Really. Hard. I have to consciously know which façade to pull out, and what (figurative) costume to wear for which occasion.

I have to pay attention to things that come instinctually to most, such as eye contact and body language and tone of voice. Otherwise, if I’m not paying attention, I just stare straight ahead and bellow out everything in a loud monotone. I have acquired social skills- and over the years I’ve trained myself to practice them well- but that whole hoo-hah wears me down, just as the social dance energizes most people.

Sometimes I’d like to tell the whole world to bite me sideways and say screw it all, (and I would if I had the scratch to live as a recluse) but necessity dictates that I have to put up with other people and their shit. Maybe it’s wrong or arrogant or selfish of me to see things that way, but that’s just the way it is. That’s my reality-constant vigilance and constant anxiety, because I have to pay close attention to every word and every movement, at least when I am under others’ scrutiny.

Maybe that was where Shakespeare got the notion that all the world’s a stage. Performing is hard work, and sometimes I just don’t wanna.

I don’t have to play the game with dogs- or even cats for that matter. With them I can just be.

There are times I do enjoy the relational hoo-hah and find it a strange kind of fun, but it’s fun that I really only need in small doses, and even when I do enjoy it, it wears me out. Right now I’m exhausted, and in a way I wish I could beg off human contact for a few months or so.

What I really need is a nice, long solitary road trip.

I could use one of those trips where I leave, go somewhere randomly, do whatever, and then come back. The last time I really did that was back in 1987, and I caught hell for it. Of course, going 500 miles out with $150, in a car that had no air conditioning, leaked oil horribly, had 4 balding (different sizes and treads) tires and a top speed of 45 MPH wasn’t a good idea and I wouldn’t dream of trying it today, especially without a phone, but those were different times. Cell phones were expensive toys hard mounted in expensive cars back in 1987. I was a young punk and wanted to do what I wanted to do, even if I didn’t have much scratch and my car was a very distressed, high mileage ’79 Subaru DL. Today I would be afraid of being raped and robbed (well, in my case, probably just robbed and shot) if I would happen to get stranded. Today I have plastic (though I am quite loath to use it) a modern car, a phone, GPS, roadside assistance and a (always loaded) .357 Magnum.

I’m not nearly as trusting as I used to be.

Jerry would have nine kinds of fits if I did something like that. He would accuse me of being out trysting with some smoking hot young stud even though he (especially) should know I have the sex appeal of stale saltines and wet socks. In reality he would miss subjecting me to his tirades, and would miss me fetching his food and beer.

Yes, a solitary road trip would be most delicious. Even a day trip would be good.

Endless Chasing After Wind, and Don’t Eat the Burrito from Speedway

July 22, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Get your gasoline, beer and Marlboros here, but NOT your burritos.

Perhaps it is too obvious to be a cautionary tale, but it wasn’t a good decision to eat the $2 spicy beef and bean burrito from Speedway. I paid for that all of Saturday night and a good part of Sunday. Who needs those expensive colon cleanse kits, or even White Castles for that matter?

I don’t eat prepackaged food very often. Most of the time if I want burritos I make them at home with refried beans, whole wheat tortillas, ground spicy turkey, sour cream, cheddar cheese, onions, salsa, etc. I know what’s in them that way.

Tonight will probably be a salad night. It’s hot. Either that or Spam sandwiches. Nothing wrong with Spam, at least not the meat product. Grill it with a slice of American cheese, some onion and tomato on wheat bread with mustard and it’s not half bad.

Grandpa used to love this stuff. And chicken necks. He lived to be 91, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

I can think of a lot of different things that probably would offend my colon less than that burrito. Like Dran-o.

As far as the condition of my mind and heart at the moment, it’s not as bad as it could be. It’s not as good as it could be either, but the pragmatist in me finds such a condition oddly acceptable.

A little bit of melancholy and pensiveness is good for the soul.

I have to watch spending too much time there, though, because for me melancholy can become full blown depression very quickly and easily. I have a twisted sense of humor for a reason, and most of the time that reason is because if I don’t laugh about the idiocy and injustice and pain and fear in this world I would have to cry. If I really start in crying, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.

Death, Life Beyond Miz Izz, and Something Else to Say

July 12, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

So I haven’t been around for awhile. There’s a few reasons for that. Let’s start off by saying I hope no one else in my sphere dies anytime soon. Death sucks. Especially when it’s Miz Izz.

I acquired Miz Izz- Isabel- as a four-week old (it’s really easy to estimate young kittens’ age) that had been abandoned in a grocery store parking lot. What amazed me is that a typical feral cat, even one that tiny, would have at least tried to run or fight, but not Isabel. She let me scoop her up and take her home. As if she belonged. And she did.

This is Jezebel at 9 weeks- she and Isabel were virtually identical as far as looks and build.

Had Isabel lived another month she would have been 16 years old. But her poor little body just couldn’t take any more. She had always been petite and somewhat frail, and she had become even more so when she developed a condition called “pillow foot” or more correctly, plasma cell pododermatitis. Suffice to say this is a nasty condition, and Isabel had it rather severely. At times her paws would swell up so much they would bleed and I would have to take her to get shots- which helped for awhile, but then she became too fragile for the meds (prednisone and doxycycline.)

Maybe I shouldn’t miss an old, fragile black cat with set ways and a loud voice. But I do.

Death can be a mercy, especially when someone is suffering and there isn’t any real fix for it, when there’s no longer any good life to be had. My last good memory of Isabel was of her greedily snapping up pieces of top sirloin as we shared a steak. The dogs were outside of course, and the only two cats that were ever bold enough to ever approach my Steak Experience were Isabel and Jezebel. Jezebel is a bit more restrained, but Isabel never had a problem getting right up close to get her little bits of gristle and fat. That was the last time I can say I knew Isabel was still enjoying being a cat. I buried her a week later.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

I admit that I fight with the idea that humane euthanasia is OK when a cat or a dog is suffering and they have gotten beyond what I would call “good life to be had,” but the same concept doesn’t apply to humans. I understand, at least from a spiritual and theological view, that God is the Author of life. Since humans are made in His image, we generally don’t have the authority to take human life away. (Capital punishment is an exception to the general prohibition against taking human life, and so is just war, but those are topics worthy of their own separate and detailed discussions. Suffice to say that I believe in the merits of both, in the proper circumstances.)

It is morally right to put a cat or a dog to sleep when he or she is suffering and he or she stops enjoying being a cat or a dog. Euthanasia for humans is not acceptable even when it would seem to be a mercy.

As far as the higher purpose of human suffering, I’ll be the first to say I don’t get it.

Not that I would put a human life into the same (noble but still lower) category as the life of Miz Izz, but my mother-in-law had been suffering and confined to a wheelchair for most of the time that Miz Izz walked the earth. My mother-in-law died last Saturday after being confined to a wheelchair for 15 years, suffering with rheumatoid arthritis, congestive heart failure and a laundry list of other maladies. Her last two weeks were particularly brutal.

I don’t believe in euthanasia for humans- not ever- but sometimes I’ve got to ask God why. Isabel pretty much enjoyed her cat life up until the last week of it. Granted happiness for cats is fairly easy- somewhere to sleep, food to eat and somewhere to drop a load. Human life is a lot more complicated, but still, why did Jerry’s Mom have to suffer for so freaking long?

Hospice is a great help for those who are actively dying, but it can only mitigate the process.

Worse than her dying was the funeral. I understand Southern Baptist soteriology (understanding of the mechanism of salvation) pretty well. “Turn or Burn” is pretty standard fare at SB funerals, but to the uninitiated, it is about as anti-PC as one can get. You don’t get a funeral message too often that includes, “Do you know where you’ll be if you get hit by a truck on the way out of here?”

Jerry’s sisters were a bit taken aback. I had tried to give Steve-o a heads up on SB soteriology before the funeral so he wouldn’t freak out. His religious understanding has pretty much been shaped by growing up in a Lutheran church, so the really fundamental interpretations of SB soteriology would sound a bit bat-shit crazy to him. Mom has confused him enough by trying to throw in the Catholic earn – your -points system.

I grew up around Regular Baptists (even more of the “Turn or Burn” mentality than the SBs) so I know all too well there could possibly be an altar call. There wasn’t. He did do the Sinners’ Prayer though. I have to hand it to the preacher for preaching the gospel instead of offering pallid platitudes on how much life sucks and then you die, ya – da ya-da. At least Steve-o had a heads up.

Lutherans don’t do altar calls. Our pastors do occasionally mention hell, but not usually at funerals.

It just seems strange to me. Life and death and all of that.

An Unexpected Blast from the Past, A Self-Esteem Boost at Walmart, and a Strange History

May 27, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I was a bit delighted as well as taken aback this morning at seeing my long-time most favorite singer, Steve Perry appearing live on stage again. I even liked the song he performed with the Eels (a band I didn’t know existed until today) even though the more prudy types would be offended by the language in it.

Sometimes coarse language is the only way to describe aptly the frustration and pain in one’s heart. Been there. Done that. Don’t want to go there again, although in my heart of hearts I know I will.

It’s still a good song, and for a guy of Steve’s age and ill health, he still sounds good.

Every time I go to Walmart with Steve-o it’s a new adventure. First he was pissed because he couldn’t find the one kind of deodorant he likes – Axe Phoenix, the blue gel, NOT the white paste- except in a two pack. I thought I was cheap. I told him, he has two pits, so why not a deodorant stick for each pit? Just label them “right” and “left” as borderline OCD as he can be. Finally he decided it would just be easier to buy two, as if he’s not going to use one up in a week or two anyway? It must be the opposite of the Costco mentality- buy barely enough for a few days, then make a trip to buy more. Personally if I have the scratch (and he has more than I do) then I usually buy in quantity- not only for the discount per unit, but to save myself a trip.

Of course we encountered the Freaky People of Walmart en masse- such as the morbidly obese woman who probably was not even 30 yet, trolling about in the little battery powered Mart Cart, sporting her bleach blonde ends and about three inches of black roots, and a plethora of extremely poor quality tats on a good portion of the exposed surface area.

When your ass is bigger than a Toyota Corolla, that “bright, Corvette-like finish” on your lard-ass cart is a sure bonus!

I guess my quandaries about the Mart Carts are:

1. How do they actually move under the suffocating heft of their passengers? If a normal sized person got in one and took off in it, would it set land speed records?

2. Is the minimum weight requirement at least 300#? Because I’ve never seen anyone under 300# trolling about in one of those.

3. Do they use deep cycle batteries, sort of like for boat trolling motors- or more like the batteries in a Prius?

4. Would the need for the carts be vastly diminished if some of the riders got off of their behemoth asses and actually walked a bit while in the store?

I sort of enjoyed Jelly Roll woman too. She wasn’t quite large enough for the carts (give her time, she was probably in her early 20’s) though I don’t think she realized that a cherry red tube top is a poor fashion choice when your body sort of resembles the Michelin Man’s. The badly done pink dye job on her hair and misspelled neck tats (when one is trying to say, “Missy loves Ray” it is not spelled “love’s“) were the icing on that cake. Woof. I am glad I didn’t have the pleasure of feasting my oculars upon “Ray.”

Then again, it’s Steve-o’s reactions to the wildlife of Walmart that I find absolutely priceless. Such as when he was looking for that men’s three-in-one shampoo, conditioner and body wash, and a rather large girl in low rise Daisy Dukes bent over right in front of him, exposing a rather hairy and somewhat substantial ass crack.

I thought he was going to hurl right down her shorts. That would have been camera-worthy, if only I had the courage. I don’t take pics in Walmart precisely because the wildlife are large enough to devour me in one bite, or to sit on me and squash me like the unfortunate “lost” Chihuahua in the “Lost Dog” cartoon.

Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t remember people being so flipping fat. I feel like a freaking anorexic when I go to Walmart, and I’m no Calista Flockhart by any stretch. The rural areas are absolutely the worst, as far as the really behemoth size 20+ underwear wearing chicks – (and there’s plenty of hefty dudes too) as if they have nothing better to do than watch Direct TV and tie on the feed bag. I can understand that in those places, though. There really isn’t much to do. Even screwing must get boring after awhile.

In defense of the portly rural poor, healthy food is expensive. It’s really cheap to go and get a bunch of store brand snackies or ramen noodles and mac and cheese if you don’t have much cash. It’s not so cheap to buy fresh produce (I even balk at that- frozen is cheaper and it’s less wasteful) or lean meat, or to buy minimally processed ingredients to prepare and cook one’s own food. A can of Spaghetti-os is a lot easier (and cheaper) lunch option than grilled white chicken on wheat with provolone, tomato, lettuce, onion and mustard on wheat toast. I have been there and done that. Canned and processed stuff is cheap and easy but will lead one down the primrose path to lardassism with the quickness.

I do love me some Skettios and Doritos, though! mmmmm!

As an aside, I just got put on hold and was subjected to a rather odious rap “song.” The only lyrics I could make out were:

Prestone

Body

Daddy

Anything you like

Whoever included those words and phrases in a song needs some serious psychotherapy time. Either that, or I just can’t make any sense of rap.

Collecting More Eclectic Ephemera, and Someone Lost a Shoe on the Interstate

May 21, 2014Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I don’t understand how shoes end up on the Interstate. I have heard the urban legend that states that tying a pair of shoes together and tossing them over a power line indicates that someone nearby is selling the reefer, but I don’t think that the median of I-71 would be a good place to score some chronic.

Another theory I have is that the nimrods one sees on the freeway (usually teenage kids) who like to put their feet on the dashes and out car windows occasionally have a shoe blown off, which would constitute one of those “actions lead to consequences” sort of lessons. As in, your mother is going to kick your butt sideways when she realizes you just lost one of a pair of $100 Reeboks.

Then there is always the prankster possibility- Jimmy’s sleeping like death in the back seat, so now’s the time to chuck his DCs out the moon roof. Fun and laffs-laffs-laffs for everyone, except Jimmy, who will now have to wear his little sister’s Hello Kitty pink flip flops for the duration of the vacation.

Oh so manly. Not. But, not being a man, I wish they made these in adult women’s sizes.

I can also understand tossing footwear out the window when and if it smells like six week old rancid pork chops that have been marinating in horse piss and used cat litter. This actually happened on a road trip to North Carolina with my parents and my then teenaged son. The POMC wears a bizarre size- 13 AA- so when he finally finds a pair of comfy shoes, they cost out the wazoo (and he is even more cheap than I am- except with his motor sport needs) and he wears them until they literally fall apart. I remember these shoes all too well- a pair of highly distressed and duct-taped Etnies that I had once had to special order and paid $100 + for, but by that time they had been worn, used and abused until the very thinnest pieces of soles remained.

The Etnies were nice shoes when they were new- but not after 2 years of Steve-o abuse.

And they smelled. Horrible. I came much too close to paying a brief and intense visit with Cousin Ralph getting a whiff of that, and I have almost no sense of smell. It had to be deadly for anyone with a normal sense of smell to be anywhere near that funk.

So when Steve-o decided, somewhere on I-71 in rural Kentucky, that it would be a good idea to remove the shoes, peel off the socks, and let his bird claws air out, a green and thick stench wafted through the Venture van like a malevolent, pasty sewage-y fog.

I thought Mom was going to hurl right out the passenger side window. It is only by a Miracle of God that she didn’t spew the Burrito Supreme and Taco Salad she’d just scarfed about an hour earlier at Taco Bell all down the side of the van. The sight of used Taco Bell splattering down the side of the van and onto the freeway coupled with that evil green miasma that was permeating the interior of the van would have guaranteed a mass uprising of various stomach contents.

I’m sure it doesn’t taste as good on the way back up.

Traveling alone does help one to avoid the hazards of traveling with others- noxious smells, dangerous driving, and the unappetizing visuals of blood relatives who are dead to the world, open-mouthed and snoring like freight trains.

I rather enjoyed my solo road trip to NC last week. The only thing I really didn’t like was all the rudeness and bad driving I encountered on the way home. Apparently assholes are universal, or they were having a convention on I-75 northbound all through Kentucky. I don’t know why everyone in the south seems to think they are NASCAR drivers or some crap.

I was also able to avoid tourist traps and kitschy restaurants by bringing my own chow and only stopping for gasoline and to get coffee and pee. I didn’t encounter any worthy souvenirs this way, but then again I didn’t end up getting taken for various overpriced hillbilly swag.

That was almost a sad thing, failing to bring back some sort of memento. Next time I take a trip like that I should make it a point to stop off at some of those shops along the Interstate just to see if there is anything worth having other than homemade fudge, moonshine (now legal in Tennessee!) or shot glasses.

God Loves a Hot Mess, and the Devil Is in the Details

May 9, 2014Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

All I can think is that God must love a hot mess, which is good news for me. The past two weeks have been rather crazy. I’ve had to make some difficult decisions, two of them in saying no to things and situations that would have been desirable- except that the devil is in the details.

I did get to say yes to the car, which I had been mulling about for awhile, and the pieces came together fortuitously on that one.

But I had to turn down taking in a beautiful black Malinois (still a bit despondent over that one) because Jerry insisted on taking in Lucy last October. I couldn’t say no to that, especially since we had lost Sheena last May.

Lucy, while she is a sweet dog, is definitely not a Malinois. Lucy is a hot mess of a willful, disobedient and destructive Beagle mixed with English Bulldog (why, oh why would someone interbreed that combo on purpose?) Clara, my (1/2 Malinois) sweet pleaser, obeys hand commands and head nods (she’s that intuitive) and Lilo, just knows and follows the routine. I am still carrying Lucy to her crate in the mornings. She does not go to the crate of her own volition even though she knows she is going to end up there one way or another.

In the words of the philosopher/theologian Mick Jagger: “You can’t always get what you want/You can try sometimes/You just might find/You get what you need.”

Sometimes what I want and what I need are two completely different things.

I discovered last week that even though I’ve been away from the automotive dealer scene for almost fifteen years, just how easy it would be for me to go right back to where I was before (different place, same type of job.) I was given the opportunity to do that. I really, really wanted to, but again, the devil is in the details. Thankfully I came to my senses and realized that 1. working straight commission is no way to live, because you end up living at work, and 2. it would be so easy to go back to that work-as-a-drug power trip euphoria.

The problem with that is when I live that way my entire identity becomes what (and how well) I’m doing versus who I am being. And that is some scary shit. That’s what landed me in my doctor’s office with ischemic attacks, bleeds in the scleras of both eyes and uncontrolled high blood pressure. That’s what got me the lecture from my doctor (when I was 30) that I wouldn’t live to see 35 unless I changed my lifestyle.

I made it to 45, so I must be doing something right, but in a rather unexpected and unsolicited job offer I learned something about myself that I don’t particularly like.

I like being in control. I really like it, and if I’m honest with myself I find that’s what’s been pissing me off for so long. I don’t like being talked down to. I don’t like having to work within inefficient processes and inane policies that I don’t have the authority to change. I don’t like being held responsible for bad outcomes that I had no hand in creating- and that I don’t have the authority to fix. I don’t like being controlled by people who shouldn’t be in the positions they’re in. I don’t like being in a position where challenging the status quo is an exercise in futility.

The bad thing is that in any environment where one has to deal with people, all of the noxious roadblocks to harmonious living, good business, and successful outcomes listed above are right there, wherever one may go. So it’s better to deal with the devil you know than to buy into a whole ‘nother demon who may be even worse.

I remember reading somewhere that the devil can be in all the things you really, really want. It sort of reminds me of when Satan tempted Jesus with all the kingdoms of the world- that somehow selling your soul is worth all the stuff you get in exchange.

I really don’t want to make deals with the devil.

While it’s not good for me to be the one in charge, it’s also not good for me to play the whipping post. If only I could avoid either extreme. I’ve been doing “whipping post” for way too long, which is what made my out of the blue offer look so attractive.

Maybe somewhere along the line I went from brash hard ass to completely losing my voice (in a figurative way) and that’s another vexing place to be.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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assorted rants