cougardom

the wonderful world of cougars, i.e. older women who like to have fun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I had a time machine…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tires, Testicles and Trouble, with Some Pent-Up Angst Too

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Sometimes old pics are creepy, especially if they are high quality color pics.  The above postcard of Downtown Marion from the early 1950’s reflects that not terribly much has changed other than the cars and a couple of the buildings.  I know exactly where that pic was taken- right in front of the south side of the Courthouse looking west.  I can see the cigar store (on the south side of Center Street, on the east corner of the intersection) and what is now the Ohio State Bank across the street from it.  Further west on the south side of Center Street is the Harding Hotel, which is also still there but has been made into senior citizen apartments.  The Taft Hotel (on the north west corner of the intersection) was torn down in  1969.  The National City Bank built their ugly boxy windowless monstrosity of a bank there (which burned down in 1985 or thereabouts) and rebuilt another hideous modern architectural disaster piece there on the same exact spot, which PNC Bank inherited.  The Bank Fire was almost a funny thing to watch as the digital thermometer on the outside of the bank skyrocketed to over 500 degrees (F) before it melted.  Then again, when you live in a backwater town, excitement is where you find it.  One would think a bank of all places would be built of relatively fireproof material, but I guess as long as the vault holds, who cares?

The WWII In Color episodes are fascinating, but they are almost too personal, as if they are bringing something too antique and faded into real life.  Some things are better viewed through the distance of black and white.

Some things are just too powerful and frightening to experience in all their details.

Admittedly I have been more depressed than usual lately.  Part of it I know is coming off of the Late Winter Funk that lasts from the beginning of February until usually the middle of April or so. I just can’t get enthused about much of anything as the snowbooger grey days drag by, overcast, rainy and dismal.  My perpetual state of poverty does nothing to brighten the picture, especially when Jerry’s groundbreaking suggestions for “saving money” include options such as getting rid of my car, and cancelling cable except for the basic channels -so he won’t miss any sports.  At no time were curtailing beer-drinking, eschewing gambling or getting serious about quitting smoking put on the table.  Then again, I don’t drink beer, I hate gambling, and thanks be to God I quit smoking several years ago.  Jerry isn’t going to address cutting back on his vices but it’s OK to cut back on my base essentials.  Imagine that.  I am disappointed, but not surprised at his zeal to make my life as miserable as he possibly can.  He wonders why I absolutely can’t stand to ask him for anything- not even basic, common sense things like paying for his own scripts and for a reasonable amount of his own expenses.  However, I am not going to give up the car. If worse comes to worse he can cram the cell phone where the sun don’t shine. I can live without the electronic leash, but as far as I can help it I am not going to put myself in a position that I have to beg for the use of his truck.  Being at his mercy for transportation is just not a good idea.  Not happening.

But as I said yesterday, I am thankful that things aren’t any worse.  Maybe I can beat some sense into his head if he’s sober- or just ignore him as usual if he’s drunk.

I don’t know why he is so jealous of any social contact I have with people other than him, even women.  It’s a fight for me to go to church and other activities at church.  Maybe in his mind he sees that he’s missing his “live-in maid” or gopher and he resents not being able to order me around or bitch at me for an hour or two here and there.  Maybe deeper down he’s afraid that I’m trolling for his replacement.  Being with Jerry is sort of like driving an old hoopty. You get none of the options that make having a car fun or comfortable (no A/C, no stereo, etc.) but all of the problems inherent to an old POS. (POS: Piece Of Shit)  He reminds me of my ’79 Rabbit that I spent $800 in repairs on in one month.  It did have a good stereo but no air conditioner, and it was a crap shoot as to whether or not it would start and run from one day to the next without something major failing. Why the hell keep on dumping money, time and frustration into a lost cause?

If I’m going to pay out the ass to drive a car,I want one that works, and one that doesn’t give me fits.  The same goes for men. I had enough of nickel and diming away my life on pathetic hooptys in high school and college- and enough of nickel and diming away my life on mooching trolls from there forward.  I hate to admit it, but Jerry has simply followed the pattern- taking advantage, draining me dry, and browbeating me into feeling like a total shit every minute I am not actively kissing his ass.  It gets old.

I take responsibility for this in so much as I allow it and I have allowed it to continue for years.  I don’t know how to make it stop other than simply disappearing, which I can’t do because I have no money and nowhere to go (also my fault) so it’s a catch-22.  The vicious cycle continues.

I’ve never been able to find a trouble free man.  If anyone could find me one who isn’t a complete troll, please let me know by commenting on this post.  Seriously.  But then again, perhaps I would be better off alone.  I would be, if I could afford it.

It’s not that I am inherently anti-men.  I love men.  I love to look at hot dudes.  If memory serves me right, I like a lot of activities involving men.  I simply have a problem with being used and guilt tripped and ignored and made to feel as if I only have value if I’m either earning money or doing endless chores.  The minute I don’t have enough money to just pay for everything or I’m exhausted and can’t do anything else then the hell with me as far as Jerry’s concerned.  Steve-o treats me the same way.  As long as Mommy’s footing the bill everything is roses, but the minute Mommy’s broke it’s F.U. this and F.U. that.  At least my poverty and lack of stamina have served me in two important ways: to let me know I am not worth a tinker’s damn to anyone, and I’m pretty much destined to die alone.  If the dogs don’t eat me, I’ll be left to decompose for months until the guy who comes to read the water meter can’t get in and as he’s banging on the door he notices a funky smell.   That’s what happened to the creepy old lady who lived across from Mom and Dad.  She used to bitch at us kids for “stealing her snow” if you scraped up a handful of snow from her yard as you went down the sidewalk.  It was thought she died sometime in February, but they didn’t find her body and fumigate the house until high summer- the middle of July.  It took two weeks for the health department to fumigate that house.

I wonder if the “I’ve Fallen and Can’t Get Up” alarm people have an alarm for old people who live alone and whose relatives are either dead already and/or don’t give a rat’s ass about them?  If I live to be old, I will be one of those people I am afraid.  When said geezers die in their sleep the alarm could go off and call the coroner to come and get the corpse before it festers and rots for months or the deceased’s dogs start munching on it.  I’m going to need one of those, or should I say the poor suckers who eventually happen upon my remains would probably be grateful for an early warning.

Maybe that could be the invention that makes me rich- the Dead Geezer Warning System.  So the coroner gets to you before the smell gets to everyone else.

It’s “Be Thankful It Isn’t Any Worse” Day!

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With a tip of the hat to my fellow cynics and assorted other ne’er-do-wells like me, I’ve come to the conclusion that I should set aside a day to be thankful that things aren’t any worse.  For instance, if for some bizarre reason I were single and decided to troll the wonderful world of online dating, something like the above picture would be bound to show up, less the dog of course, as the dog would be his only redeeming feature.  I can just imagine the troll that some dating service would inevitably choose for me would actually look somewhat like the fashion-challenged ginger above, but would have a profile picture that looks something like this:

So much for truth in advertising. Of course, if he really did look like this, he’d have to be gay.  Straight men are never that hot.  So I should be grateful that Jerry is not nearly hot looking enough to be gay.  We all know what happened to the ugly gay guy. He had to date girls.

I am also thankful that I am sitting here in beautiful Central Ohio.  The weather here usually sucks to some degree, in some sort of way, but one thing we don’t get here are tsunamis.  If there were ever to be a tsunami massive enough to hit Columbus, rest assured that most of the rest of the world has been knocked out too.  We do get floods (frequently, but localized) and tornados, and snow storms on a regular basis, which can be bad enough, but even in the worst of the recent Downtown floods, I’ve never seen anyone in German Village floating on their house ten miles out at sea.  Granted, the Great Flood of 1913 was really bad, see the pics here , but that was before the Army Corps of Engineers built the series of dams and reservoirs on the Scioto and Olentangy Rivers.  I have seen Infiniti Q45s towed in filled up to the belt moldings (where the window glass meets the door) with poo-filled sewer water, and a whole shipment of used Corollas acquired in a rather shady auction deal with bizarre electrical problems and shift consoles packed in flood mud, but that’s pretty piddly compared to what’s going on in Japan.

There can be earthquakes in the Midwest, but generally the Central Ohio area is a geologically stable zone.  We likely wouldn’t get severe damage if the New Madrid Fault were to generate earthquakes as it did in 1895.  It would, however, really suck anywhere along the Mississippi or Ohio Rivers.

At least I’ve not gotten motivated to get these memos (yet):

I haven’t descended into that dark a level of depravity.  It would be fun to see the expressions on certain people’s faces should they receive such a memo though.

I am thankful for flush toilets and for not having to use them outside.  The thought of having to use an old time latrine or outhouse like we had to do at the Girl Scout camp is downright frightening.  There’s something most off-putting about having to a.) use a flashlight to get to the latrine, then once you find the latrine you have to b.) shine the flashlight in and around the hole to check for unauthorized insect, arachnid and reptile life, and c.) smell the acrid stench of hundreds of other people’s decomposing urine and feces.   To add fuel to that fire, I’ve not entirely overcome my fear of flying and crawling insects or wayward arachnids.  Reptiles never really bothered me, probably because there aren’t very many venomous species in Central Ohio.  Usually on the rare occasion anyone happened upon a snake, it was a small, harmless garter snake.  There are copperheads and rattlesnakes, but both copperheads and rattlesnakes are fairly rare and are found mostly down south.  Nothing terrified me more as a child (and everything terrified me) than flying, stinging insects.  I hated them- bees, wasps, hornets, anything with wings and a stinger- and there is no shortage of any winged stinging insect around here in summer, especially mosquitoes- believe that.  I can thank my sisters for that hyped-up terror, as they found it most amusing to throw flying, stinging insects in my hair.  

I’m thankful that not too many people would find it amusing to throw live wasps in my hair today.  Cougardom has its advantages.  So does short hair.

I’m thankful I don’t drink anymore, therefore I am not subject to hangovers.   I am still subject to Jerry’s “drunk and stupids” followed by the sappy, lingering,  pathos of his hangovers, but there is humor to be found in that, so it’s a wash.

I am also thankful that there will soon be a day when we no longer have to hear about Obama.

I am thankful that there will be a day when Steve-o is out of school, gainfully employed and fully financially independent of the parental units.  The sad part about that is he will probably move down South and then I’ll only see him on holidays.  But that will give me an excuse for a road trip and somewhere to go on vacation, so that has its advantages as well.   I might not be terribly averse to retirement in the South, as long as he doesn’t move into some backwater holler straight out of Deliverance.   I like living in the city despite the crowds and traffic.  You can find things like food and medical care and employment a whole hell of a lot easier in the city.

I don’t get to travel and stay in hotels, therefore I don’t have bedbugs.

I have three nice warm dogs who love me even when everyone else on the planet is screwing me over.  I think I saved the best for last.

Mortality, cont., Simple Thanks, “Sin Boldly,” and Whatever I Fear

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I know it might be considered a bit morbid to troll about in old cemeteries.  As a kid cemeteries used to scare the living hell out of me (along with just about everything else, so go figure) but today I find certain cemeteries to be particularly serene.  In spite of the “buy one get one free” sign in front of the cemetery (Chapel Heights Memorial Gardens) where my grandparents are buried, it’s actually a very peaceful place to hang out.  People fish in the creek that runs in front of the cemetery which could be seen as irreverent by some, but I don’t think my grandparents would mind.  They always enjoyed fishing.

I’ve always loved willow trees.  This is the view of the creek that runs in the front of the Chapel Heights Memorial Gardens.  The peculiar thing about Chapel Heights, as far as cemeteries go, is that the only grave markers they allow are simple flat ones- like Grandpa’s Army marker. There are no obelisks, or statues, or ostentatious carvings. From a distance it simply looks like a park.  The beauty there is more natural than historical.   When the weather improves some (but before the mosquitoes take over) I will need to take another roadtrip up there to just sit and hang out for an afternoon.

My favorite cemetery (now that does sound morbid, but what the hey) from a historical perspective, is the Marion Cemetery – right across from the Harding Memorial on SR 423. The Merchant Ball is there, and you can see where it rotates on its base even though no one can explain how or why it does.   Some of the best examples I have seen of maudlin Victorian era gravestones anywhere are in the Marion Cemetery.  I have taken pics of a few of them (the one at the top of this page is one of my favorites) but I don’t have enough space in my memory card for all the really good ones.  I could literally spend a week in there wandering about and taking pics of cool old Victorian headstones.   There must have been a lot of people in Marion back in the day with a LOT of scratch to spend on their dead relatives from the looks of the monuments in the Marion Cemetery.  Today the place is so poor I’m surprised that anyone who dies now gets a burial or a grave marker at all.  If I would have to make an educated guess, cremation has probably become the dispatch method of choice for the dead, simply for the cost effectiveness.  From another practical viewpoint, I have to wonder about the wisdom of burying dead people in a reclaimed swamp.  Burying people in the ground- even in concrete vaults and steel coffins- doesn’t strike me as being terribly sanitary considering the high amount of rainfall and the poor drainage that is inherent to Marion County- and the rest of Central Ohio.

I am thankful the dryer works.  It can dry a large load in about 90 minutes which is encouraging.  90 minutes is a lot faster than 3 hours plus.   It feels good to have the laundry caught up. It is a relief to know that if I want to wash the dogs, or wash all the living room quilts that cover the furniture, I can.   I washed my bed sheets and blankets yesterday.  Since the dogs like to sleep in the beds I have to wash everything often, otherwise it ends up covered in hair and smelling like dog funk.  I’m glad that Lilo is really the only one of the three that ever gets much of a funk to her.  Clara has almost no odor, likely because of her short coat and sparse undercoat.  Sheena I can’t really explain.  She should reek to high heaven with her thick undercoat,  (Heidi and Kayla were purebred GSDs- and they both reeked no matter how often they were bathed) but for a dog with such a thick coat Sheena is remarkably clean-smelling. 

As far as my ongoing quest to live authentically (which is how I understand Martin Luther’s instruction to “sin boldly”- here is a link to a better theological understanding of that instruction) I can only appeal to the grace of God to overcome my fear.  I can only trust that He will give me the courage and the discernment to do the right thing- and the forgiveness I inevitably need when I screw up.

I’d like to have a spontaneous and unfettered approach to life.  Not being dead broke all or most of the time would help, which would require me to (somehow) get Jerry to pay for his fair share of things instead of just footing the bill myself because I know he throws major fits every time I request money.  He can go to the hell hole and blow hundreds of dollars and to him that’s quite fine, but if Steve-o needs $50 to pay his electric bill and I don’t have it, it’s a Federal case.  Jerry can be generous when he wants to be, (especially to his family, except Steve-o of course) but he simply doesn’t get it. No matter what method I use to explain it to him- spreadsheets, calendars, letting him see my bank statement, etc. he just doesn’t get it that I’m not randomly blowing money on frivolous and unnecessary things (such as beer, cigarettes or gambling, but I digress.) 

One time when I asked him for money because I was dead broke after paying the car insurance, he actually accused me of having an illicit drug habit!  I don’t.  I can’t even drink with the medical issues I have. Most of the illicit drugs out there would probably kill me outright.  He should thank God I’ve never been into crystal or the white powder, or I’d probably ripped his head off and shit down his neck hole years ago.    

Technically one could say that I do have a “drug habit” – but all the drugs I take are prescribed by my Dr.- and are pretty much essential to keep me vertical and above ground.  Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with expensive (though non-frivolous) things like blood pressure meds and insulin.  It’s not like I have the Dr. write me scripts for high dollar face Nair and that stuff that’s supposed to make your eyelashes grow.  (WTF?)  I simply don’t make enough money to pay for everything – stuff like car payments, the exorbitant amounts for various insurances, scripts, groceries, gasoline, etc. and so on- for both of us.  If I did have enough money to pay for it all, believe me, I wouldn’t ask.  I would just pay and keep my mouth shut.

I do draw the line at a few of Jerry’s vices.  I refuse to buy his beer, smokes, or to support his gambling habit. 

In his favor he does pay his own truck payment, and he has to buy his own beer, smokes and lottery tickets. 

Very few things terrify me and stress me out more than arguments about money.  I’ve never been a person of means, and I’ve had to scrape and pinch and rob Peter to pay Paul my entire life.  My parents were never people of means either.  Their most heated and (verbally) violent arguments were always centered around money and (almost always) the lack thereof.  Nothing would send Dad into a rage quicker than anything involving money.   I can’t blame him.  There were times when we were growing up when he had to make the choice between paying the mortgage and utilities or buying food or medical care. 

As a kid I remember weeks of eating pretty much nothing but Cream of Wheat or no-name Mac & Cheese to get by because there was no money for food.  I remember going without things like glasses or dental visits for years at a time, because there was no money in our household for preventive care. Before I could drive it really didn’t matter if I had glasses or contacts or not, so I just dealt with it.  Ignoring my health is likely how I ended up with rheumatic fever too, (you get it from untreated strep infections) because it came to a point when I would refuse to tell anyone I was sick, and I’d even try to deny it even if I was clearly deathly ill.  I knew they couldn’t afford the Dr. visit or whatever scripts he might prescribe- and I didn’t want to hear their fight about how much it cost and how they don’t have the money after the fact.  Now I have permanent heart valve and joint damage.

I should know better at this point in my life.  It’s not about lack of money, but how “household” money is being used.  Right now Jerry pretty much pays his truck payment and sustains his own vices and thinks that’s all he needs to do- while I’m footing the bill for Steve-o,  as well as Jerry’s scripts, Jerry’s food, all the insurances, etc. he insists on having even though it’s overkill, and so on. 

I am dead afraid of letting him get a taste of reality because I know he will do anything he can to punish me for it.

Why I am browbeating myself for expecting Jerry to act like an adult and take responsibility for his fair share is beyond me.  I’m glad he bought the dryer, because I really despise crunchy clothing and I’m not going to the laundromat, but in perspective, that dryer cost less than one month of all the various life insurance that gets deducted out of my checking account- on his insistence- every month.  The dryer is also a replacement for the one I bought for $350 back in 2000 that he has had the use of for the past 11 years, if you really wanted to play tit-for-tat.

I don’t think I owe him obeisance for anything.  For all intents and purposes I kiss his ass to keep the peace- but I of all people should know that feeding alligators only makes them hungrier.  Appeasement is Obama’s foreign policy and it’s not working for him either.

I know what I’m doing.  I don’t like it, but I need to find the courage to change it.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things (Yeah, Right…)

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Cooking, I don’t mind.  I am a good cook, thanks to both of my grandmothers (God rest their souls) and the fact that I did the cooking and cleaning at home from the time I was 12, when Mom had her bad back injury and couldn’t do much of anything for several months.  I sort of ended up responsible for meals and laundry and cleaning by default.  My sisters were pretty much always out either playing sports or socializing.  Since I was forbidden both by health issues and by abysmal coordination from participation in any type of organized sport, having a good excuse for getting out of the house was a lot more difficult for me.  I couldn’t actually live at the library even though I spent plenty of time there. 

As an aside, I truly wonder if my heart valve damage would have been bad enough to make me drop dead from playing basketball like that poor kid in Michigan.  Is a “sports physical” for middle school or high school sports really anything more than simply checking to make sure you can breathe and have a pulse?  If that’s all that’s done, I probably could have passed a “sports physical” had I attempted it (not that I would!) because my valve defects are not always audible.   Even if I would have kept my mouth shut about having heart valve damage from rheumatic fever and went through gym class in spite of having the Doctor’s Note (oh, thank God for the Doctor’s Note that released me from that humiliation) would it really have made a difference?  I’d probably sat on the bench most if not all the time anyway.  I should have asked the cardiologist who did my echocardiogram back in 2001, just for my own personal curiosity.  I’ve been warned about getting my heart rate too high because I have an irregular heart beat and I’ll pass out- but I’m allowed to do all the swimming, walking and bike riding I want.  Unless I pass out, that is.

I didn’t do too much socializing either, other than avoiding getting my ass kicked, until I got a car.  Having a car- even one as distressed as that poor Subaru DL- afforded me both protection and people to party with, which was nice.   I am thankful for spending a good part of my teen years learning how to cook, fry, stew, bake, and make decent gravy. When it comes to acquiring Life Skills, nothing facilitates learning like being tossed in the trenches.  I know when I moved out Dad really missed those home-cooked meals.  Taco Bell just isn’t the same.

Cleaning is not one of my favorite things by a long shot.  There’s something about being awakened to way too many of Mom’s late night cleaning frenzies that has put me off of power scrubbing forever.  Especially because she is one of those types who worries about the crap you can’t see.  I am not going to lose sleep over dust bunnies under furniture, dog hair under the carpet, or that sort of thing.  I like clean laundry, a clean bathroom and kitchen and relatively clean floors, but I don’t have to Clorox the entire house every other day like she used to do.   I have a job and a life.  I also have dogs.  Large dogs.  Large dogs with hair.  The only time the dog hair issue really gets disgusting is in Spring and Fall when they blow their coats.  Sheena for some reason- probably due to the stress of her spay/partial mastectomy surgery- blew her coat in January, so I don’t anticipate her Spring blowout to be terribly severe.  Lilo is always an adventure because of her intense hatred for either bathing or brushing.  Thankfully she doesn’t have a really outrageously thick coat like Sheena does.  Clara’s seasonal coat blowings are barely even noticeable (gotta love that Malinois coat) and even if she were a heavy shedder, she adores being de-haired with the blade.

For those unfamiliar with the use of the shedding blade, it’s not cruel.  It’s actually a Godsend for short-to-medium haired dogs.  You glide the serrated edge of the blade with the grain of the dog’s coat, and all the loose undercoat, etc. is just peeled right off.  If Clara had her way, I could brush her out with the blade for hours on end.  The blade does not work well with long haired dogs, or dogs with heavy undercoats, such as GSDs.  GSDs, Huskies, Chows- (i.e. Sheena and Lilo…)-heavy coated medium haired dogs- require the rake.  That sounds like a cruel implement too, but it’s not.  It just digs deeper in the coat to remove all the loose undercoat.

Sheena is quite fine with being raked out, which is nice, because she has that ungodly wooly Husky undercoat.  Lilo also has a thick undercoat but she is incredibly body sensitive so I let Jerry go after her with the rake, and with the bathing.  None of our dogs like water.  I find it funny when we take the dogs near any body of water.  They all avoid getting wet, as if the water was hot acid, especially Lilo.  That is particularly amusing – our dogs cautiously avoiding the water- as we watch other people helplessly getting dragged into the drink by their Labradors.   Never take a Labrador to a body of water unless you are planning on either you or the dog or both getting wet. 

Sometimes the girls just plain get gamey. In spite of their dislike of water they must be bathed on occasion, which inevitably ends up with me, a boat load of towels, and the entire bathroom being thoroughly saturated. (Another reason why I need a working dryer!)  Clara tolerates her bath.  Clara is compliant, but she doesn’t like anything to do with getting wet, and she’s very glad when it’s done.   Sheena is mildly uncooperative with her bath and requires a little elbow grease to keep her contained.  Lilo positively despises being bathed, and has to be physically picked up and placed in the tub, but the last time I was able to keep her under control and get her reasonably clean. 

This is the reason why I never, ever touch the undersides of tables or desks- or the sides of bathroom stalls for that matter.  I remember way too many study halls in high school watching the gross kids scrape their boogers under the ledge of the desk. 

We had a particularly sadistic English teacher (thankfully he wasn’t smart enough to teach AP English, so I never had him for class) who was also a wrestling coach.  When he monitored study halls he liked to slam books on the desks to wake anyone who thought about sleeping.  I wonder if he quit or if he was fired for (allegedly) knocking up those cheerleaders.  That was back before DNA technology could scientifically pin him down as The Baby Daddy, as opposed to being maybe one chance in five, so I would assume the former.  I doubt if those dingbats even knew for themselves who the baby daddies really were.  The key to blaming one guy for being The Baby Daddy is to only do the horizontal mambo with one guy- unless you’re up for DNA tests on Montel, which was not possible back in the mid 1980’s.

I usually occupied myself by reading or drawing on the rare occasions my schedule allowed me a study hall.  I was very good at hiding my National Lampoons and MAD magazines inside of Scientific American (which I also read) or other serious-sounding techie type magazines, to enjoy throughout a mind-numbingly boring study hall if I wasn’t already in the middle of a Stephen King novel or other “recreational reading.”  Teachers generally left me alone as they just assumed I was reading above their heads (sometimes I was) and therefore was not into “contraband.”  I liked humor and smut as much as the next person. Unlike other people who were too stupid to change the covers on risque books, I got away with reading them whenever I wanted.  I read anything I could get my hands on, but even with a collection of smutty literature that would have made a trucker blush if it were illustrated, I could not completely ignore the depraved humanity around me.  The sight of assorted unwashed losers picking, examining, and then scraping their big slimy greenies under the desks is still enough, even after all these years, to keep me from touching anything under a ledge with my bare hands.

Appliance FAIL, Older, but Not Dead Just Yet, and Clean Clothes Rule

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I really don’t know of a suitable requiem for a clothes dryer- it was 11 years old after all- but mine finally took its final puke yesterday.  Of course, with a full load of wet clothes in it. So guess who got to hang up various items all over the basement in the hopes that they will dry before they mildew.  The good news is when I came home tonight everything was dry and not mildewed- but stiff as a board because the clothing items were denied their tumble dry with the dryer sheet.  Nothing like crunchy undies.  Jerry’s going to bitch about that!

The dryer had been singing its swan song for some time.  About three months ago we put a new bearing in the drum and that helped for awhile, but for the past two or three weeks the drum would barely turn.  Then the spring on the belt idler pulley came off and the drum would not turn at all .  Jerry managed to get it back on.  It ran for about another ten minutes, then the belt broke and the pulley assembly more or less disintegrated.  The drum won’t turn, and without replacing the pulley assembly, the belt and assorted other goodies it’s not going to.  By the time I order the parts and fart around with it yet again, I might as well buy a new one.

I have to do shit tons of laundry around here between Jerry, the dogs, and the fact that I am totally anal about having clean clothes and bedding at all times.  As I have told Steve-o many times, if you wore it and it’s not been washed, it’s dirty.  No sniffing the crotch to see if it passes the “smell test” or anything like that.  You wore it, whether I can smell the funk or not, it smells like your bits and pits, and it needs washing.  If it’s bad enough for me to smell the body odor funk- with my seriously impaired sense of smell- it probably needs Clorox’d and/or burned.  The only thing I want to smell on clothing is the slight hint of Febreze and/or fabric softener.

I did the laundromat thing for five years which was five years too long.  I am not doing the laundromat thing again.  Especially these days when it is not safe for a woman to be out after dark anywhere for any reason, let alone while nice and vulnerable schlepping laundry baskets about.

I finally got some better pics of Sheena.  She is not that enthused about having her picture taken so I have to sneak them. She has a lovely coat.

I’m older, not necessarily wiser, but at least I don’t look like President Ford in drag. Yet.

That’s what really got me about this painting, although Quinten Massys- the artist responsible for it- died in 1530.

People didn’t bathe very much in the 16th century. Queen Elizabeth I was quoted to say that she bathed once a month whether she needed it or not.  For the time she was considered a frequent bather.  One could only imagine the pits and bits funk on Renaissance period clothing. No wonder they all had the lice and fleas and God knows what sorts of parasites and critters living in and on them.  The royalty and nobility would have smelled worse than dingleberries on a goat’s ass.  Just imagine the common people who lived in the streets and probably never bathed or changed clothes.  Nasty.

I need a new dryer in the worst way.  Just thinking about not being able to do laundry makes me want to wash everything in the house again and to be able to dry it in the dryer with a dryer sheet so it isn’t crunchy.

 

Need clean clothes…soft clean clothes….

A Little Personal Dignity, Welcome to the Freak Show, and Modesty Lost

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Yes.  Bad ass, and not in a good way.  Woof.

Whatever happened to personal dignity?  I feel guilty when I go through the drive-thru with PJ’s on- but on the rare occasions I do that I usually wear a coat over them, and I’m not getting out of the car parading around in a store.   If I absolutely must take a late night or early morning foray across the road to Speedway or CVS I try to be kind enough to others to a.) put on clothes vs. PJ’s, and b.) wear a hat if I am suffering from Bed Head. 

When I wear shorts they are normally Bermuda-style, and I generally prefer capris or below-knee skirts to shorts as they cover more of my legs.  At no time whatsoever do I appear in public places displaying butt crack, the top of a thong, or midriff.  Nobody wants to see any of those, at least not mine, and besides, we have laws in this country against subjecting others to cruel and unusual punishment.

I have some personal dignity even when it’s hot weather, but it’s certainly not hot weather yet.  I may break out the summer ensembles some time in late May depending upon the weather.    In Central Ohio, March is still part of the limbo snow-booger grey season of  “not quite winter, but definitely not spring” in which one may as well prepare for plenty of cold, wind and rain because that’s what you get.  However, I still see girls wandering about with little more than a tank top, flip-flops and a smile. What the hell are you thinking?  Especially tragic are the ones who dress (or should I say, fail to dress) like the native women in National Geographic but weigh more than many small cars.  Woof.

It is no crime to be large, just dress accordingly.  Nobody wants to see meaty arms, especially complete with an anchor tattoo.  I like her blue hair, though.  Nice touch.

I find it hard to believe anyone would find this pic sexy.  There’s even a warning label in the tights intended to inform the wearer that they are not pants.

‘Nuff said.

Of course I would be willing to relax my own modesty requirements for the male -and buff of bod. 

I don’t know too many dudes who are comfortable enough in their masculinity to wear a pair of Hello Kitty underwear, but given the right physique, it can be a beautiful vision to behold.

The only problem with revealing clothing items for men is that the guys who have absolutely no business wearing garments such as man-thongs or speedos are the ones who do wear them.  I remember one afternoon, when he was very little, taking Steve-o to the pool.   Steve-o, having an eye for the odd and out of place that he has, saw a very fat dude who appeared to be nude, and at that tender age was rather distressed by the fact that someone was nude at the pool. (Today, I’m sure Steve-o would find a skinny-dipper at a public pool most amusing.)  I was going to say something to the manager, because the fat dude appeared to be nude to me also.  I thought he had absolutely nothing on- until he bent over and you could see the slightest hint of red speedo stretched tenuously across his butt cheeks.  His fat rolls covered up his skimpy suit when he stood up.  This is a guy who just might want to consider the boxer-style swim trunk.

I don’t know which is worse, the speedo on a guy who should be wearing boxer-style trunks, or the giant plastic crucifix he’s wearing.  Talk about mixed messages.

I would have to say that 95% of men should wear the boxer-style trunks, to spare the rest of us the rather unsavory visual,  just as 95% of women should be wearing the old-lady skirt type one piece bathing suits (or a two piece that has a long enough top to cover the entire belly area) with the bra inserts in them like I do. 

Has everyone forgotten about modesty?  I don’t believe women should be confined to the burqua or anything draconian like that, but there’s a hell of a lot of space between the burqua and the women in the South American jungles who wear nothing but a leather thong and a smile.  Women with meaty arms should not go sleeveless.  Large women should rethink spandex and tank tops and should avoid anything that shows midriff or thunder thighs.  Even thin women can go without displaying their butt cracks and tramp stamps.

Fat men in speedos are just plain gross.  Any “fashion” that displays a man’s hairy ass crack (whether he is buff and hot or not) needs to go away. 

Steve-o, this includes you dude.  Nasty!

I don’t want to see a dude’s ass crack, or the top of his boxers when he bends over.  Pull your flipping pants up to the waist.  And don’t even think about skinny jeans or spandex unless you look like Steve Perry back in 1981:

If you can wear tight jeans like that, gentlemen, then by all means, go right ahead.

Funky Wiring Has Its Advantages, The Un-Birthday, and Please Practice “Safe Text”

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I have to laugh.  As I was reviewing my birthday request list , I noted to my dismay that I didn’t even get the 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper.  No cougar cruise, no waterpark fun day, no three pack of Hanes Her Way hi-cut granny panties, no gas card, but it doesn’t surprise me.  My oldest sister, the childhood sadist, sent me a redneck themed card, because she gets such a hoot out of the fact that I married into the Most Redneck Family Ever.   Apparently she doesn’t understand that when you go fishing without appropriate bait you catch whatever bottom feeder the hook manages to snag.  At least she was lucky enough to look good from the neck down and was able to land a decent man.  Ironically, she treats him like shit.  It doesn’t surprise me. Apparently in relationships someone has to be the shitter and someone has to be the shittee.  I know all about #2- literally.

Mom didn’t get me as woefully inappropriate a gift as the cookie cutters.  I still don’t get why anyone would think a diabetic would want cookie cutters.  Why not the whole cake decorating kit and the candy thermometer too while you’re at it?  Mom got me a particularly nice pair of Isotoner driving gloves that actually fit my big meaty man-hands- which is surprising as it is difficult for me to find womens’ gloves that fit.  That is a useful gift.   I did get a phone call from my illustrious offspring, to remind me that February is a short month and he needed his rent money.  Although he and Jerry share no DNA whatsoever, they are both blissfully ignorant of dates.  Unless of course, there is money involved.

Dad finally remembered that he forgot my birthday last night (28th) and asked me (in all seriousness) how I liked being 44.  I reminded him that I’m only 42.  Apparently he is 23 years older than me and more senile than I am.  Now I see what I have to look forward to.  Mom at least knew she would probably forget and gave me the gloves the last time I was up there.

I happened upon a most amusing website today which really cracked me up.  Steve-o and his friends communicate almost exclusively through texting.  Steve-o is a particularly poor speller.  Most technicians are dismal spellers and poor writers- but as a trade-off, they generally have mathematical and spatial skills that far surpass mine.  It was always fun to interview techs, if only to critique the fashion and hair faux pas.  GQ, these guys ain’t.  I should have actually requested them to fill out their resumes using crayons and a Hello Kitty coloring book  just to make reading them more entertaining.  I almost always ignored their resumes, took face to face interviews with a grain of salt, and hired techs off of whatever good recommendations I could find from others in the business, combined with whether or not they could pass a BMV check.  It worked better for me that way.

This being said, I have to laugh at those who use auto-complete or other spell-check features on phones.  Those features for the lazy or inattentive generally suck- but they suck in occasionally hilarious ways.  Damn You Auto Correct is a nice little site where people post all the ridiculous ways that “smart” phones fill in the blanks. 

My funky wiring gives me a few advantages- such as speed-reading and an uncanny ability to spell correctly almost all of the time.  I don’t use auto-complete or spell-checks because I generally don’t need them.  If I really am in doubt over the spelling of a word I will usually verify it on Merriam-Webster’s site, because I truly want to be correct.  I  wouldn’t generally refer to myself as a spelling and grammar Nazi, but I do try to maintain a high personal standard.   The irony of the auto-complete and spell-check programs is that to use them effectively one has to have some sort of idea of the correct spelling or usage, otherwise one may end up with an entirely different meaning to one’s message.  Therein lies the humor.

I think double-entendre to be the most hilarious of the forms of humor.  The more off-color the reference the funnier I find it, even though it may be puerile and sophomoric.  Everyone needs a hobby, and the more things I can find to laugh at, in the depths of my pathetic life, the better. 

I have to wonder, as I troll the Damn You Auto Correct site, what the hell are the people who program the auto-correct and/or spell-check software thinking?  Is English their first language?  Or do they have as dark a sense of humor as I do?  I’d like to think the latter.  We geeks are masters at passive-aggressive revenge, and what better way to exact passive-aggressive revenge on neurotypical society than to humiliate those who struggle with the written word? Why not transform their  attempt to spell “penne” (as in pasta) to “penis?”  Who wouldn’t want to be invited over for “Salad with Vinagrette and Penis?”  I’d make a special trip for that.

Does anyone ever proofread their texts, even a little?  Or do you just hit “send” with wanton glee?

How about a little “safe text?”  Or not.  It’s funny when it gets screwed up!

A Peaceful, Easy Birthday Everyone Forgot, and I Like It That Way

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At my age it is a lovely thing when everyone forgets your birthday.  Jerry can’t remember his own birthday without either straining to read the fine print on his driver’s license, or by checking with the BMV, so I forgive him for that.  His family doesn’t bother to recognize birthdays, likely for two good reasons.  His Dad and his Dad’s fourteen other siblings were born at home, deep in the hollers of rural WV, and none of them have birth certificates.  The date- and year- listed as his Dad’s birthday on his Dad’s driver’s license is likely not his Dad’s actual birthday, but someone’s best guess.  Since his Dad got a social security card and driver’s license long before you had to have a birth certificate to acquire either, his Dad is grandfathered in.

I wonder if he would be able to get a passport?  If he were really pressed could he prove he is an American citizen?  Our friend Bob is an American citizen but he was born in London (his Dad was American but his Mom is English) and his birth certificate is in London.   Bob can’t get a copy of his birth certificate unless he goes to London to get it, but you can’t go to the UK without a passport.  Thankfully the Social Security people recognized his honorable discharge from the Marines as proof of citizenship.  Bob still can’t get a passport though, because when he tried he was told that one has to have a certified copy of one’s birth certificate.  Then again, I highly doubt that Jerry’s Dad would really need a passport for anything, unless they make it mandatory to have a passport to cross the border from WV back to Ohio.  The birth certificate requirement to acquire a passport is probably a blessing in disguise to keep old rednecks from traveling abroad and perpetuating the “Ugly American” stereotype.  Then again, maybe our foreign friends have never tried getting rid of hemorrhoids by soaking them in kerosene.

When you have so many family members that every day is someone’s birthday or so it seems, it’s a lot harder to remember every one and a lot harder to afford to buy gifts for every one.  So, I can see where Jerry gets the idea to  simplify his life and just celebrate all his family’s birthdays every day with a 12 pack of Natties and a couple of packs of smokes.

I do find it entertaining how some people remember my birthday sometime in the middle of March and then send sheepy, belated wishes.  It’s OK to forget.  I don’t really want to be reminded that I’m one day closer to death anyway.

Over time one gets a new appreciation for bodily functions functioning as they should.

Admittedly not everyone forgot my birthday. The BMV doesn’t forget.  I renewed my vehicle registration last week.  No way do I want to drive around in the Central Ohio suburb with the largest number of cops per capita with an expired tag.  I don’t even remotely want to give law enforcement any reason to approach me for anything.  Cops make me nervous.  My Facebook friends remembered, because your friends get reminders automatically.  I appreciate everyone who wrote on my wall today.  My friends from my church group remembered for the same reason- all of our birthdays are on the contact sheet.  But my family all forgot, which is funny as hell.  Steve-o remembered to call- to remind me he needs money.   Jerry acknowledged me coming back after I’d gone in to work this morning with a rousing, “Where’s my breakfast, woman?”  So the world remains the same.