2012 Pretty Much Sucked, Here’s Hoping 2013 Sucks Less

December 31, 2012Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

If we could have unloaded this asshat, it would have been a far better year. But even in spite of Obama, the apocalypse is still pending, so that counts for something.

Then again, if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his ass when he lands. I should try to be a bit more serene about things I can’t change, but I’m still outraged that anyone as anti-American and incompetent as Obama can ~~hold~~ steal the office of president. I’m more outraged that he cheated to get there and no one will do anything about all the voter fraud that went on. May 2013 bring Dick Nixon part deux. Congress needs to grow a pair and impeach Obama with the quickness, but Obama is too pompous and narcissistic and delusional to just resign and leave peacefully. I know, I can’t stand this guy and the more I see of the damage he’s doing to this country with his Marxist agenda, the more I positively loathe him.

In fairness, this past year was sort of a mixed bag. The weather was mercurial as it always is in Central Ohio. I will mention that I’ve never seen as much snow on the ground at one time here in Columbus than what I’m seeing right now. I’ve seen lots more snow at one time up north in the hinterlands, but I’ve personally not seen more than 6 inches of snow on the ground at one time here.

The White Death arrives- just in time for Target to put out the bathing suits and summer fashions. Yippee yahoo. Last year, by January 15, there was a delightful selection of swimwear, shorts, halter tops and other seasonally inappropriate attire throughout the women’s clothing section of Target. Not a pair of long johns or a parka to be found when it’s 5° outside, but there’s loads of tankini bottoms to be had. I just think that’s funny.

Happy New Year! It’s 5°! Let’s get our tans started early!

January is, statistically, the coldest month of the year here in beautiful Central Ohio. Temperatures here are not swimsuit appropriate until at least the middle of May or the beginning of June. I don’t buy clothes six months in advance. It makes me wonder just how many people are buying swimsuits in the middle of January. I can understand if you have an indoor pool or a membership to an indoor pool, or if you vacation in fairer climes during the winter, but aside from that, we poor folks have no reason for swimsuits in January. That also begs the question: how many people who have indoor pools, or can afford pool memberships or expensive vacations, shop for clothing at Target? Rich people do go to Target, but only because they need toilet paper and Glade products too. You can’t buy Angel Soft at Macy’s, or refills for your Glade plug-ins at Nordstrom’s.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Target. It’s cleaner, and there are more English-speaking people than in WalMart. The WalMart closest to me is a real life Zombie Apocalypse that I refuse to patronize since spending 20 minutes early one morning trying to find a cashier when I was trying to buy a jug of Pennzoil.

This place is too scary for pictures, and I am not easily distressed.

I also hope and pray not to have to visit the ER anytime soon. That was the worst hospital stay I’d had since the Murphy’s Law Childbirth Experience from Hell. Even when I was strapped to the bed and damned near made my Final Exit I don’t think anyone called me Mildred or asked about my diarrhea. And I didn’t have to be bunkmates with a howler monkey either. The only bright light in that hospital excursion was the two young, hot paramedics and the one nice looking male nurse in the ER, even if he did call me Mildred and ask about my diarrhea.

Contrary to popular opinion, once the hospital staff learned I was NOT Mildred, tests revealed I actually do have a heart, though like the rest of me, it’s not quite normal.

On the bright side, nobody important to me (i.e. personal friends or relatives) died this year which is always a plus. I actually got a really cool birthday present this year, which means even more considering that people generally forget my birthday. My granddaughter was born at 11:50 PM on February 25- ten minutes before my birthday. That was really cool.

Kids do grow fast. Now she’s 10 months old and running- and into everything.

As far as my own personal household, the only “kids” living at home have four legs and fur. Against my better judgment (but I couldn’t resist…) we have four cats again. Jezebel is one of the (formerly) feral cats Jerry trapped behind the body shop. There were a total of four. The two grey ones and the black and white one ended up going to the body shop owner’s horse barn to help keep the rodent life in check. We kept Jezebel because she is all black. Black cats do not fare well in feral settings and they’re not really safe as barn cats either. They are much safer (as is any cat, truth be told) as strictly indoor cats. Jezebel is now very much a strictly indoor cat. Like Isabel, she shows no interest regarding what’s beyond the door. The week before Halloween when she was trapped, she had to be handled with welding gloves. Jerry found this out the hard way when she got her mouth on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and latched on for dear life.

Whachoo lookin’ at, Willis?

In eight weeks Miss Jezebel has made a dramatic change. She is shamelessly attention and food-seeking. She is just as bold as her mentor, Isabel (who is 14 years old and also all black) in her dealings with the dogs. Jezebel has become a perfect, prissy indoor cat. I just hope she doesn’t get in heat before her spay appointment March 5.

I hope the coming year is better- personally, nationally, financially, health-wise, etc. My expectations aren’t that high, so I shouldn’t be too disappointed.

Crappy Santa, My Awesome Playlists, and Whitey Tighties

December 16, 2012Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

Ok, this is just a little too “festive” for my house.

I wonder what Dr. Freud would have to say about this? Is Santa a fecalphiliac? This just screams, “Ho, Ho, Ho, come crap in my mouth!”

While this little toilet decorating set is cute in a sort of creepy way (my grandmother used to always put toilet seat covers and rugs and tank covers on her crapper) I don’t see it making it through Jerry and the Natty Splatters. Poor Santa’s collar would be yellow in no time (because somebody can’t aim and won’t sit) and I have to have the plunger at the ready more than I would like to formally acknowledge.

I enjoy Christmas decorations, the kitschier, gaudier and tackier the better, but the bathroom is just an area in which the fixtures, let alone the decor, have a hard enough time surviving. Jerry was raised by wolves, and his bathroom etiquette reflects his upbringing. It is a rare day that I come home from work and the bathroom sink is not encrusted in face fur clippings and congealed toothpaste spittings. It’s so much easier to clean the sink before that mess dries, but Jerry does not clean sinks. I am doing good when he remembers to flush.

Thankfully, though Jerry’s outward leavings might lead one to believe he’s a PigPen, his personal hygiene is impeccable. He is just too lazy to clean up filth that does not directly touch his own body.

No good playlist is complete without some old, live Journey. “Still They Ride” from the “Greatest Hits Live” album (1982-3) is pretty awesome. Anything from the “Greatest Hits Live” album is pretty awesome, including “Mother, Father” and, well just all of it. I am an incorrigible Journey fan and I admit it. It’s my not so secret pleasure. I’m still on the Jethro Tull kick lately too, as well as I’m enjoying The Babys “I’m Falling” and Rod Stewart’s “The First Cut is the Deepest.”

Then I’ll probably switch over to some Metallica (“Battery” and perhaps the “Unforgiven” trilogy) or maybe some Guns-n-Roses. Or maybe Neal Schon’s “The Calling,” which I’ve been enjoying a lot as of late too. He may have a creepy girlfriend, but Neal Schon is a hell of a guitar player. I don’t understand his obsession with tall, anorexic thin creepy blonde chicks, but then he can afford anyone he really wants. It’s sad, but frumpy old brunette women with the proportions of mutant trolls do not get significant others who buy them Bentleys, or who wine and dine them. It’s hard to go fishing when you don’t have any bait. Women like me are doing good to get a cranky old fart who screams about breakfast and the failing elastic in his whitey tighties, and whose only real purpose in life is to generate filth for me to clean up. Someone has to do it, but it gets tedious, believe that.

All I can say to Jerry in response to the comment regarding failing elastic in the whitey tighties is, that if your balls really are scraping your knee caps, then it’s high time you cart your sorry ass over to Target (because I really loathe department stores anytime during the holidays, and I try to avoid them) and buy yourself a six pack or two of the Hanes whitey tighties you like. It’s really possible for you to do that.

It is not against the law for men to buy whitey tighties for themselves, and it sure looks a hell of a lot less awkward for a dude to buy these than for me to go through the checkout at Target with a few packs of men’s skivvies. I wonder how many cashiers have mistaken me for a she-male when I’ve replenished Jerry’s whitey tightie stash. I mean, the guys at one dealership I worked for did have one of my technicians (granted, the tech I’m referring to is Chinese and he’s maybe 5’6″ and 100# soaking wet) convinced I used to be a man because I have big meaty man hands. I do have big meaty man hands, even for an Anglo woman, so I can imagine my hands are really huge compared to an Asian woman. But, I was born female and even had a child in (sort of) the normal way. No Y chromosome action going on here.

No, I can’t get him to wear boxers. Pity.

So I keep on going.

I love sleeping. I should be doing that, but my insomnia is getting the better of me tonight.

Beyond the Void, Someone to Talk To, and Miscellaneous Tidbits

December 10, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I know where this sign is. You can see it on southbound I-71, somewhere in Madison County- between Columbus and Cincinnati.

I don’t like to think about that most terrible place I think of as simply the void, but I was reminded of it in of all places in church this week. It’s that bone chilling, thought shattering, crushing experience of being everywhere and nowhere and immersed in grinding, mind-blowing pain that is brought on by extreme trauma, whether it be emotional or physical. Stephen King sort of describes it in his short story, “The Jaunt.” What I mean by the void is a sort of airless, timeless limbo that is between time and space (if that’s possible to comprehend.) It’s the moment in which you are hit with unspeakably horrific, life-shattering news and the grief and disbelief and shock hit you like a tidal wave- and worse.

In “The Jaunt,” the entry into the void was a bit different. A scientist discovered that teleporting things almost instantly across space was possible, but that live animals and humans only made it through “the jaunt” if they were anesthetized. Live animals came through the process aged and weak and died shortly after arriving at their destination- and the few humans that attempted it came out on the other side certifiably insane.

Maybe King’s story isn’t the best analogy, but it’s the closest reference I can find to those times in which the wind is knocked out of you, you are transported to an airless, breathless, motionless state, and your world falls apart. It’s infinity in there. And not in a good way. It’s what I would imagine to be a tiny sampling of hell- and no I’m not referring to the BMV. I have to go there soon enough for the dreaded driver’s license mug shot, for which no matter what I do it will turn out positively frightening and should say “Correctional Institute Inmate” on the picture somewhere, because yes, my driver’s license pics have always been That Bad. Even so, I’d gladly take an hour at the BMV waiting on having a shitty picture taken vs. one millisecond of the void. Believe that.

My driver’s license is valid, but the pic is just as bad.

I don’t like to be reminded of the void or of the times I’ve been there.

However, as far as psychological pain goes, I am almost always a delayed reactor. I can only think of one time that I completely fell apart instantaneously, and that is when I got the news about my four year old niece being killed, which was completely unforeseen. It seems that in order for me to fall apart I have to be caught off guard.

For years I dealt with- (and at times, still do deal with) post traumatic stress, which is the gift that keeps on giving, those brief illogical terrors that show up unbidden and in the least likely of places for the most bizarre reasons. One of the most memorable unbidden episodes was back when I was working a really crappy job. The only thing that kept me from going nuts in that place was that they sent me out to run titles from time to time. It’s not rocket science but it does give you a lot of time to yourself. You find the title offices of surrounding counties and turn in the paperwork so people who just bought cars get their titles registered and all that crud. Most of the time back then, title offices were in the courthouse in whatever county seat so I got to investigate some really cool old 19th century courthouses. Today public buildings might as well be prisons, but back in the day architects built things not only to last, but for their aesthetic value. That part of the title running thing was almost fun.

This is the courthouse in Marion County. I hope that the powers that be don’t decide to tear this one down too.

I had to go to Union County, which was only about a half an hour out. The title office had temporarily been moved to the old high school which was slated for demolition, while the new county building was being built. So I find my way through the vestibule and follow the arrow upstairs. The staircases were well-worn and crumbling, but the metal framework beneath them was holding fast. I had a really strange feeling in that building, as if I were violating someone, or something’s space. I found the temporary title office, completed the transfers, and as I was leaving, a huge framed glass and gold leaf memorial caught my eye.

I don’t have a pic of the Union County memorial that was in that high school, but this memorial displays a similar concept.

It was a memorial of WWI veterans who came from that school. There were at least fifty names on that memorial, and I believe eight of those names had stars next to them, indicating that they had been killed in action. I wasn’t able to linger there long. For such a small, rural town to lose that many was sad, but the fact that the memorial was in a high school sort of struck me. These weren’t old men. This wasn’t a picture of grinning old men reminiscing over old times at the bar in the VFW. These were kids just out of high school- boys who either came home jaded and scarred, or never came home at all. I don’t know how to describe the wave of emptiness and profound grief that washed over me that day, but I had to run back to the car as fast as I could, and for some reason I was overcome with sadness and rage and I don’t know what else. I wept over strange young men who I had never met, who had experienced terrors beyond anything I could imagine, and to this day I have no idea why.

On a brighter note, I remembered that I haven’t put up any pics of my newest kitty, Jezebel. Jezebel was one of the feral kittens Jerry trapped back on the shop lot the week before Halloween. The other three went to the owner of the body shop’s horse barn to keep the vermin away from the horses. I wasn’t planning on another cat, but Jezebel, well, she’s all black. All black cats don’t fare well in feral or outdoor settings, so we made her a house cat. The first week or so she had to be handled with a welding glove (this is sort of normal with feral kittens.) Now she is very social and fond of human attention, Isabel (and she looks just like a mini-Isabel) and really isn’t fazed by much of anything, including dogs. The key to socializing cats is getting them before the socialization window more or less closes at 12 weeks. These kittens were about 6 or 7 weeks when we found them, which is the perfect age to socialize them. They can eat solid food and live OK without Mommy, so the mortality rate is low, but they can still learn to get along with humans, other cats and dogs.

Jezebel instantly gravitated to Isabel, (who is also all black) which we are grateful for because Miz Izz loves other cats and has always been good at schooling youngsters. So now I have a 14 week or so old kitten who is going to have to be spayed here in the next few weeks. But Jezebel is already a really good cat. No welding gloves are currently required.

Jezebel- “Mini-Izz”

Observations of a Cynical Old Bitty, Sports Commentary, and Keeping it Simple

October 9, 2012Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I don’t drink beer. I don’t like beer. But to Jerry, this swill is the elixir of the Gods. Go figure.

Tomorrow I begin a brief vacation. Not because I’m sick, a family member’s sick or I have some stupid errand(s,) which is usually the only reason I take time off. Granted, I did tell Jerry I would list a bunch of his crap on E-Bay tonight (joy and rapture) and I did put the rack of ribs in the slow cooker. But he’s on his own for a couple of days which means the drive-thru better have some cold Natty Packs, and I better make sure he has Katie’s (the local good pizza joint) on speed dial. Tomorrow morning I head for the hills- literally- where Sprint access is a crap shoot (so no internet and probably no phone either) and things should be somewhat bull-shit free as long as Jerry doesn’t show up and ruin the quiet.

I’ll have Miss Clara with me, to screen any potential “visitors.”

Clara enjoys being at the campground. I do have to make sure she’s on a leash any time she’s not in the cabin, but I give her a long lead and let her explore. Clara is obedient and usually a good listener, but my only fear is that with the prey drive she has that she would lunge off after a critter and get lost. Prey drive is an instinctual thing with dogs, and when she’s locked on to something she may or may not respond to verbal commands. This is why a lot of people who work with protection breeds use shock collars (no I am not going there) so they can get a dog’s attention should they get locked on a prey item. I don’t want to take that chance in an area where she can get lost and/or mistaken for a deer. Admittedly, I’ve been paranoid with Clara ever since she was hit by a truck three years ago. She has never attempted to get beyond the fence since then, even when Sheena has found – or fabricated for herself- ways out. Sheena has about ten pounds on Clara, so any hole big enough for Sheena is more than big enough for Clara. Before she got hit Clara thought it was a fun game to try to find holes in the fence and such, but she has not strayed even once since. Still, I’m not taking any undue chances with her.

I’m not trying to get my hopes up about the upcoming election, though I was most encouraged by Romney’s debate performance last Wednesday. I’d never really thought Romney was much of a public speaker but this debate was a most pleasant surprise. The man knows what he’s talking about, and more importantly, he believes in what he says. The absence of the teleprompter was rather telling for Obama. Apparently Eastwood was right. Now if only the rest of the world will get a clue and see what I’ve known all along. The self-proclaimed “emperor” is naked as a jay bird.

Bluejays may not wear clothes, but at least they do have feathers.

Bluejays are interesting birds in that they eat almost anything, and they’re rather aggressive. A few years ago there was a huge scare in Franklin County regarding West Nile virus and people were asked to report any dead crows or jays (crows and jays are actually related types of birds) so the health department could test them. Of course I’m the lucky one to find a dead jay out in the front yard that wasn’t visibly mauled by cats or hit by anything, just stiff and dead as a post, so kept my distance and called the health department to come and get it for testing. I’m not a big fan of communicable disease, so I figure better safe than sorry. If there’s crap like that lurking about in my yard I want to know about it.

In response to my call, some guy from the health department showed up, with his hazmat garb and everything, to pick up the dead jay (with thickly gloved hands of course.) The health department guy observed that the jay’s mouth was open and that it had another bird (likely a baby starling) jammed in its throat in such a manner that it likely choked to death. He still took the dead jay for testing, but assured me that the cause of death was most likely asphxyiation rather than West Nile. Apparently this is a somewhat common manner of death for jays.

Thankfully no one needs to tell me this twice.

Most sports are pretty stupid when you think about it. Football for instance, involves chasing a funky shaped ball up and down a field. It also involves having very big guys jump all over your sorry carcass. I spent the first thirteen years of my life trying to avoid having my ass kicked. Even if I were coordinated and could play a sport for money, I don’t think the scratch would be worth daily ass kickings all over again. NFL players are coming out and saying that they are getting brain damage from all the concussions they get playing football. Granted most athletes aren’t rocket scientists to begin with (and I say this from deep within the highly uncoordinated geek camp) but shouldn’t brain damage be your sign that playing certain sports might not be worth it?

Today you’re throwing a football on national TV. Tomorrow you’re sucking up pureed bananas in a straw whilst shitting your drawers.

Hockey is another sport I don’t get. It’s only fun if they fight.

Which brings us to NASCAR fans and WalMart shoppers….

Perhaps that’s mean of me, and a bit ironic, because occasionally I go to WalMart, if I have to get something I can’t find at Target, or I’m in Marion where there is no Target. But NASCAR, I can’t bring myself to watch that shit. Ever.

Must have taken this pic in Newark (OH)- the Lardy Lady Capitol of the Midwest!

Freddy Mercury would have loved Newark. Big fat Fannys everywhere!

Speaking of big fat Fanny- but she’s a cat- and she’s cute.

Scary Bad Parenting, “Functional” is Not the Same as “Normal,” and Don’t Stifle My Creativity

September 10, 2012Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

Just blow that second-hand smoke all over your child’s developing lungs!

I have to admit, nothing contributes to the desire to chain smoke more than dealing with infants and toddlers, unless it’s dealing with automotive technicians. At one time I had to contend with both, though in the end, chain smoking just feeds the nervous tension. Thankfully I had taken a three-year hiatus from smoking, beginning a year and a half before the illustrious offspring arrived until about a year and a half after the illustrious offspring arrived. At least I didn’t knowingly contaminate the child whilst he was in the womb- mostly because I feared giving birth to a drooling slack-jawed cretin should I indulge in an aspartame-laden Diet Dr. Pepper, or a hit off a cigarette, or God forbid, a cup of coffee. He’s potty trained, literate and gainfully employed, and he can pick his nose with his tongue!

I blame the tongue thing on the Sudafed. One stinking Sudafed in week 3 of gestation, and the kid’s born tongue-tied. Let that be a lesson.

Lávese las manos! In NC, the obligatory employee bathroom instructions are only in English. In some parts of Ohio there’s 14 different languages on the sign – and there’s still millions of crusty people who don’t wash their hands in the bathroom.

I always wondered, since there’s dippy pictorial signs everywhere, either for the illiterate or the non-English speaking or both, why not a universal “wash your hands after using the crapper sign? ” My art skills are pretty rudimentary, but here’s a thought:

Here’s my contribution for the betterment of humanity. Enjoy, and wash your damned hands!

The cigarette jones is a strong compulsion, though. I know what possessed me to pick them back up. I was stressed, sleep deprived, working a very shitty job with very shitty pay after I’d been promised all kinds of things that never materialized, and in the process of getting a divorce. I was driving back from some backwater town running titles (which wasn’t what I was hired to do, but getting out is getting out) and happened to stop at a gas station for more coffee when I saw the Marlboro sign. After three years of no smoking at all- from 1989-92, I bought a pack of Marlboro Menthol Light 100s and hot-boxed half the pack on the way back home. I was a two-pack a day smoker for the next ten years, sometimes lighting one right off of the butt of the one I’d just smoked. I apologize to Steve-o for letting him think that smoking was OK. Strangely enough, he took them up three years after I’d quit (God willing for good) in 2002. But he won’t smoke his cigs in that high faluting Audi, because he doesn’t want to “stink up the leather.”

No smoking in the Steve-o ride. It might make the leather stink.

I’ll never make any sort of claim that I’m “normal.” Functional, yes, but that’s not quite the same thing. Rednecks piece together machinery and devices that are functional, but not exactly in the ways the designers had originally intended.

I don’t need no stinkin’ latches! Though I think the bungees are holding the decklid and the rear fascia on too.

The Marion Walmart never disappoints as far as the panoply of redneck engineered motor vehicles in the parking lot. Sadly this poor Pontiac is 1.) likely totalled and/or the one who hit it had no insurance or 2.) the one driving it when it was hit had no insurance, and making a police report would have cost him/her his/her license. Or, 3.) the driver of said Pontiac took the insurance settlement and spent it on crack. If I were a betting person (which I’m not) I would wager on #3. Perhaps it’s mean of me to photograph others’ misfortune, but it’s funny in a tragic sort of way. I’ve driven my share of shitty cars, but that was in the days before digital photography made the disasters so easy to share.

What I don’t get about this 70’s Midol ad is the guys deserve some of the aggravation right back at them. Especially Jerry.

Another thing I discovered about menopause is that you don’t need Aunt Flo as an excuse to channel your inner bitch. I can be bitchy all month long AND wear white pants while I’m bitchy, even when I’m sitting in the freezer. The hot flash thing isn’t nearly as bad as it was a year or two ago, but it’s still bad when I’m watching polar bears on TV and at times I wish I was hanging out on the icebergs with them. I don’t think I’ve worn a sweater for years, or more PJs than light PJ pants and a t-shirt. I would probably be smothering to death if I had long hair. Now I know why old women have short hair. It’s easier to color, yes, but it’s also a hell of a lot cooler.

I have every right to keep on bitching!

Suffer the Old Cougar, Sheena’s Special Needs, and the Things on My Memory Card

August 29, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I don’t have too many strange little pieces of kitsch lying around, but this is one of them. I even know where it should have been at one time.

This is a ’69 Cougar. The emblem, above, that I happened upon in some yard sale crap box, is the same as the one on the LF fender.

I never was a true believer in old Detroit iron. I’m still a bit of a car snob- I love, but can’t afford and don’t want to deal with the high maintenance on the European stuff, so I am happy with a utilitarian Toyota that is easy to maintain, reliable and efficient and I leave it at that for now. Unless I come into money and can buy that ’69 FJ40, the ’69 Karmann Ghia and the ’83 GTI I’d like to have to play with.

Even back in the ’80’s when all the other motorheads were into Camaros or Mustangs or (heaven forbid) anything Mopar, I was playing with VW Rabbits and air-cooled VW rail buggies. However, if you are/were into old muscle cars, the ’69 and ’70 Mercury Cougars were somewhat rare, and are aesthetically very cool. Mom actually had a ’70 Cougar, with a 351 Windsor no less- the one she sold way too cheap because my cat, LeRoy, decided to take a leak all over the back seat. As part of the same eliminatory session, LeRoy also left a huge dump right on the driver’s seat. That’s why you never leave the window down. Leaving windows down on any unattended car in Ohio is a bad idea for a number of reasons. First, it can get jacked that way. Second, it can rain anytime, regardless of what the “forecast” indicates. Third, outdoor cats may mistake your ride for an upholstered toilet. No matter what she tried, the piss smell just wouldn’t come out. LeRoy lived outside because he wasn’t neutered (I was only a little kid and couldn’t afford to get the poor cat’s nuts cut so he could live in the house) and now I know why neutering a tomcat is pretty important if you want him to live inside. Male cat urine does not ever come out of upholstery. “Little Trees” don’t help, either. The dude who bought that old Cougar freely admitted to having no sense of smell. He smelled worse than the interior of the car to begin with, so I understand why he could have cared less. It was a good match.

LeRoy looked like Morris the 9Lives cat, but Dad hates cats, so LeRoy it was, since that’s Dad’s middle name.

LeRoy (in spite of having my Dad’s rather unfortunate middle name- Grandma sure had a sense of humor) was a really cool cat. He was about Fanny sized- 16#-17#, and I could do anything with him, up to and including putting him in doll clothes and walking him around in a doll stroller. He actually was a street cat, but he knew where the food was (I did bring him food) and he was one of those twisted big cats that liked little kids picking him up and playing with him. Leave to me to attract the neighborhood misfits and strays.

Speaking of misfits and strays, we have discovered why Sheena is so difficult and seemingly incorrigible. On top of all her other issues, Sheena is deaf.

No wonder she doesn’t listen. She’s deaf as a post.

I don’t know why we didn’t figure it out before. She follows the other dogs and will usually do what they do- but when there’s no other dog to watch and she can’t see a human, she’s lost. She does not respond to anyone if they’re behind her and she can’t see them. You can’t wake her from sleep unless you touch or shake her- sounds do not wake her up. I had thought she was just an incredibly sound sleeper, but that is not normal dog behavior. A dog that can hear will be roused from sleep by a loud noise close by. She is also much more intent on being able to see everything than a normal dog. Jerry is having a dog trainer come out to evaluate her tonight to see if she might be able to learn sign language since she is so visually focused. I have found some information that deaf dogs can learn commands in ASL, which would be a good learning experience for the other two dogs also. In a way I feel bad because we simply thought she was mentally off, but for being deaf and having to navigate that way she compensates amazingly well. Fortunately she already has some things working to her advantage. She is able to follow the other dogs and work off their visual cues and body language, which is beneficial for a deaf dog, and in some instances (case in point) a deaf dog living with hearing dogs can cue in on their behavior and adapt so well that no one can tell they’re deaf. Sheena has no fear of humans and she’s very trusting- probably because she knows that the humans have the food. I am anxious to see what the trainer has to say when he works with her.

I took this pic whilst getting Jerry’s lottery tickets at the Speedway (gas station) last night. Getting stoned in a Mom van. Go figure.

I do find some funky things to photograph. I wish there had been digital cameras back in the ’80’s. Then again, maybe not.

The boy can sleep- and drool- anywhere.

Like father, like daughter- they were both napping.

It Wasn’t Always Better Back Then, Senile Agitation, and Slightly Macabre

July 26, 2012Tonya Lanthron 4 Comments

Let’s just give old, agitated, belligerent, senile Gramps some Thorazine! That will calm his wrinkled ass down!

Never mind that: Chlorpromazine (the generic name for Thorazine) is not for use in psychotic conditions related to dementia. Chlorpromazine may cause heart failure, sudden death, or pneumonia in older adults with dementia-related conditions.

Apparently, barring the possibility that a lot of old people back then were on Thorazine to treat tetanus, this stuff must have killed off a few geezers back in 1960-whatever. Today we know better. We get them hooked on Oxycontin now.

Tetanus does not look like it would bring a “peaceful death.” Unless you’re a contortionist.

That reminds me, I probably should get a tetanus shot. The last one I had was when I fell on the coffee table back in 2003 and had to have a buttload of stitches to fix the gash in my knee. It left a pretty funky scar, and after the Lidocaine and stitches I couldn’t give a rat’s ass less about one more needle stick. That was before I ended up diabetic and had to give myself shots every day. That will put you off the fear of needles with the quickness, though I will grant that insulin shots are given subcutaneously (in the skin) and with a tiny, tiny short pen needle, so that’s no big deal anyway.

I’ve not encountered as many angry old people as I do angry young people. Perhaps their type-A personalities kill the angry/disgruntled/perfectionist type people off young, so that the odds of living to be both old and pissed off at the world aren’t so good. I’d like to think that age (and having more resources) can buy one a certain ability to forgo social interaction to a large degree, so the genuine piss ants out there quarantine themselves. I know of one evil old bitty that was exactly like that. She lived across the street from my parents when I was a little kid. The only reason I was aware of her existence (and her seething rage) was that she subscribed to the newspaper. Back then the kids that ran the paper route also had to collect the payments- usually once a month, but some people were so cheap you had to go collect every week.

The local paper was $1.35 a week. Some asswipes made us chase them down every week- for $1.35. Then again, today no parent in his/her right mind would let their kids go door to door to collect money for any reason, but those were more innocent times.

Thankfully Mrs. Crotchety paid by the month, but it was begrudgingly, and you had to listen to her tirade about how hard it was for her to wander the four feet from her chair to answer the door, how the paper is really crappy for how much you have to pay for it, and that whoever was delivering papers that day (either me or my sister- not the sadist, the almost normal one) had better be sure to put her paper in a plastic bag on the porch right next to the door because she wasn’t going to pay for a wet paper.

Mrs. Crotchety also had a bad habit of screaming out the door at neighborhood kids in the winter if they would dare to scoop up a handful of snow from her yard (even if obtained from the sidewalk) to throw a snowball. If you did that, you risked having Mrs. Crotchety screeching out the door at you: “Put back my snow! Right now or I’ll call the police!”

Don’t you brat kids go stealing my snow again!

The only good part of her threats was that she must have had the police on speed dial, because I think they learned to ignore her. Then again, even in a real emergency, the police response time wasn’t so hot. Not too long after Mrs. Crotchety died, my best friend almost got killed by her psycho boyfriend. It took the cops 23 minutes to show up after I called 911. Had she not clobbered him with a hair spray can and knocked him through the shower door, he would have stabbed her to death. At least 80’s hair was good for something.

Who would have thought? Aquanet saves lives!

Anyway, old Mrs. Crotchety never had any visitors. Her husband had died years and years earlier, and her kids had gotten the hell out of Dodge even before that. The only time anyone came to her door was my sister or me, when we were collecting for the paper, and the unfortunate meter reader for the water company. By the time Mrs. Crotchety died- by then she had to have been 90 at the very least- though I would guess about 115- my sister and I had long since moved beyond delivering the paper, so we were thankful not to have to encounter her.

Let’s hope someone took the “open casket funeral” off the table for Mrs. Crotchety.

It was the poor meter reader who smelled something funky. It was about this time of year- high summer- when the health department finally investigated the house and discovered Mrs. Crotchety’s extremely decomposed corpse. The entire house had to be gutted, and the health department had to have a HazMat crew come in to fumigate the joint. Time of death? The coroner opined that she probably expired sometime that previous February. Since the furnace had stopped working, either she froze to death, or she died and then the furnace stopped (who knows?) so she didn’t really start to rot real good until April or May.

Nobody noticed mail piling up, because she had a slot in the door. I’m sure the only mail she got was bills and her SS checks. The only way anyone would have noticed mail piling up is if her entire living room would have filled up with mail. I’m somewhat surprised the mailman didn’t smell something weird, but he was an incorrigible lush (sometimes you would find him napping propped up against a tree, or sitting in his truck) and a pervert who liked to read other people’s magazines (namely mine, as I would get supposedly “new” magazines defiled with peanut butter fingerprints all over them.) I don’t think he noticed anything. Perhaps the combo of rotgut liquor and a guilty conscience over defacing my National Lampoons killed off his olfactory faculties, or maybe he smelled worse than a rotting dead body. I do know he was replaced eventually- when he got popped for DUI while driving the mail truck.

If you die alone and rot, it will leave a mark.

Mrs. Crotchety died before the days of the “I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up” buttons. If she’d had one of those it would have saved the health department a lot of work. Maybe that’s where that technology came from, because health departments across the country were tired of having to peel dead old fossils off the carpet.

Oh, and back in the day:

Did you know Ovaltine could make you wake up gay?

Not the Queen of the Popularity Parade, and My Guts are Not Here for You to Love

July 24, 2012Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

Sometimes it’s necessary to inform others that I do not suffer fools lightly. Nothing personal.

There is a certain notoriety in holding a minority, hard-line viewpoint, but my guts are not here for anyone to love. I’m sure if I just blithely and vapidly followed the mainstream in my social and political views I’d have a lot more friends, but in my mind, a lot less personal integrity. As far as friends go, I’ll take quality over quantity any time. If my views serve to “cull the herd,” so be it. I don’t need, nor do I desire, much social interaction, so when I do interact with people I want those interactions to count. If I’ve challenged your thought processes, contradicted your world view, shocked or appalled you, offended you, or perhaps even broadened your vocabulary, so be it. My inciteful mission moves ~~forward~~ ahead (thank you, Obama, for ruining what used to be a perfectly acceptable word by using it as the slogan for your crappy, and hopefully unsuccessful re-election campaign.) “Forward” indeed – over which cliff? The Grand friggin’ Canyon?

For what it’s worth, you can probably find Obama on the golf course.

Granted, I’m no poster child for the goody-goody crowd. I have my flaws, but I have to live honestly the best way I know how. I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not. I’m not out to impress anyone, sway anyone to my point of view, or any of that noise. For the most part this blog is for me, a place for good or ill, to speak my mind, organize my thoughts (easier said than done, that) and just plain sound off.

I learned many years ago that I’m not wired to please too many people. I have a hard time pleasing myself (no, not that type of pleasing, pervert) in that I’m an incorrigible perfectionist, as well as I’ve got quite a flaming type-A personality. I have absolutely no patience. I’m into the instant gratification thing, believe that. I buy things online (often) because I loathe actual shopping in stores, and then get impatient when I order something from the west coast and it takes me a week or more to get it.

This is what I used to get so pissed at Steve-o for doing. Wash the damned pants already. Or buy some new ones. Go to the thrift store if you must.

I have even less tolerance than patience. I try, I really do, but today my tolerance is whisper-thin. I’m being bombarded by bad country music blared from two points (and different stations, no less) in the room. Dueling freaking banjos, oh holy shit- if only it were just banjos and not that horrible caterwauling that country artists call “singing.” I do have good music on the MP3 player in the headphones to try to cancel it out, but I can still hear the oat opera and it’s damned annoying. Then to add insult to injury, I’m trying to concentrate on getting my paperwork done, but it’s rather difficult to concentrate when I’m sitting next to our very own office freaking Typhoid Mary, who has been hacking up pieces of lung and snorting about all morning, like I need contagion on top of noise pollution. And she’s one of the bad country music blarers, to boot.

I’m just not a big fan of communicable disease. Especially the respiratory ones. Been there, done that, way too freaking much.

Maybe I’m just being petty and mean and I really shouldn’t be like that, but dammit, we don’t need any diseases running through here. Then people call off, and by that time, even though I usually end up being sicker than Jerry Sandusky at a Boy Scout Jamboree, (only not in quite the same way) since I’ve lingered on and done everyone else’s shit while they try to recover, I can’t call off. If you’re going to hack and cough, take some damned shit to control your snorting and snots, and don’t get pissed when I Lysol the hell out of your area, and my own, to try to keep the germs from infiltrating my space.

Did I mention- I’m very user UN-friendly?

I know I can be the High Queen Bitch of all I survey, and today is sort of one of those days. I’m trying so hard to be nice that it’s actually pissing me off, and that’s never a good sign. It’s even more funny when I hit the random scramble on the MP3 player and I get:

“Sympathy for the Devil”- the Rolling Stones

“Gold Dust Woman”- Fleetwood Mac

“Skating Away on the Thin Ice of a New Day”- Jethro Tull

Ian Anderson is way cool though. You gotta admire a guy who can stand on one leg and play the flute- in a rock setting no less.

Even a random sampling on an electronic device seems to reflect my angst today. I shouldn’t be pissy about anything, and I shouldn’t let trivial things overwhelm. But I do. Yes, I did take my meds today, but today is one of those days when I wish it was OK to mistake Bailey’s for coffee creamer.

My Playlists are Awesome, and Planned Euthanasia Really Sounds Sucky- When You’re Old

July 13, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Some people (like me) absolutely adore it, the rest of the world (even some Journey fans) absolutely hates it, but Dream, After Dream isn’t your typical rock album.

I was thinking about it this morning, what an awesome collection I have of music that doesn’t suck on MP3. Most music (with a few notable exceptions) written after 1985 sucks major ass. That’s OK because most of the good stuff is readily available on MP3 if you know where to look (Amazon…), which means no farting about with vinyl records, cassette tapes or even CDs.

This morning started off with Don McLean’s “American Pie,” “A Girl Like You,” by the Smithereens, the amazing live version of Journey’s “Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin'” from the Greatest Hits Live album, and “Don’t Tell Me You Love Me” by Night Ranger. I’ve got the good stuff. I have some choice rarities- all on MP3- such as Journey’s Dream, After Dream, Journey, Look Into the Future, and Next, and Gregg Rolie’s album simply titled Gregg Rolie, (these are sort of obscure) as well as some more recognizable 70’s and 80’s fare such as REO Speedwagon’s Hi InFidelity, Supertramp’s Breakfast in America, Meatloaf’s Bat out of Hell, and Rush’s 2112.

The album art was a lot more interesting when record companies had all that surface area to work with and actual artists designing the covers. I must say Journey’s Departure album is the greatest cover art ever:

Multi-colored motifs are not just for gay pride. Remember that.

I have to say my favorite pic of Steve Perry on a Journey album cover is the one from Evolution:

It was 1979. Steve Perry was wearing Spandex. All was pretty much right with the world.

It disturbs me at times just how archaic I am becoming. It’s pretty bad when half the population can’t get most of my reference points. I was thinking about the whole idea of how our society views older people. I’m not a total fossil yet- at 43 I have not quite made it to the “ancient” category, but I’ve lived a year longer than Elvis. (If you don’t know who Elvis was, click on the previous link.) Elvis died in 1977. I remember that. A lot of my friends’ mothers were brought to tears over that one. I wasn’t really much of an Elvis fan (I was only 8) so I wasn’t as devastated by his death as some other people were. Of course, there are those who speculate that Elvis is still alive- but then Jimmy Hoffa might be alive somewhere too.

In 1975 there was a movie released called Logan’s Run. I am generally not a fan of science fiction, (in fact, normally I rather loathe the genre) but I remember watching this movie back in the 80’s and thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad to be spared the indignity of living past age 30 and being “old.” From today’s perspective (and having passed that milestone over a decade ago) that’s some scary shit.

Guess what? Your time’s expired!

Humans have a little something called a self-preservation instinct, and it’s a pretty intense drive. If not for this instinct, suicide would probably be so rampant that nobody would make it past puberty. All those people who tell you that “man, if I had to live like that just shoot me,” have a totally different perspective after the open heart surgery or colonoscopy or course of chemo. People hang on just as tenaciously- if not more so- to life at age 80 with a laundry list of catastrophic health issues than do healthy young people. They have looked death in the face and it scares the hell out of them.

Yeah, you’re old, but just not quite ready to die right now.

In Monty Python’s Quest for the Holy Grail, we get to see a wonderful example of the self-preservation instinct in action. “I don’t want to go on the cart!” No shit. Nobody does, and I don’t care if you’re 8 or 80.

Steve-o is always telling me if he had to give himself shots he would rather die. Yeah, right. He might say that now but if it’s a choice between shots or death, I’m pretty sure he will acclimate himself to the shots. I’m diabetic and on insulin. Believe me, I am the first one to go and fill that insulin script. Needles? Who gives a royal hang? Once you get used to giving yourself the shots- which really doesn’t take long- it’s just something you do, like brushing your teeth or putting on shoes.

Get used to it, you wuss. I can think of much worse things- like being subjected to bad country music at 11 PM.

Of course, because I’m diabetic and have a nice little list of chronic illnesses I’ll probably be targeted for Obama’s death list sooner or later. I can see it now: This one is just too expensive to maintain. What scares me about the whole idea of rationed health care is that necessarily some people are going to simply be denied the treatments and medications they need to live. As the program costs more and more, fewer people will be deemed “sustainable,” and those with expensive chronic illnesses will be the first to be assigned to die- first by neglect (hell, just make sure the diabetics can’t afford their insulin!) and eventually by force. Maybe I’m being paranoid, (and I should never watch science fiction anyway) but I see Logan’s Run as an eventuality should socialism be played out to its objectives.

On the bright side, the old people have all the money, at least right now. As the population ages, perhaps we won’t have such a negative view of the elderly and/or infirm. Hell, we are almost hip. Notice that Lawrence Welk is not included in my playlists. I’m not that ancient- yet.

Lawrence Welk, not so much.

But Ozzy’s cool.

I Love My Flaming Type-A Personality, Deepening Sarcasm, and Welfare Day

July 3, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Ok, I’m not ripping on the genuinely needy. As someone who knows all too well what it’s like to choose between food or scripts and/or worry about having essential services cut off, I feel for those who are just trying to get by. Even so, I should know better than to go anywhere near a grocery store on the first three or four days of the month. All I do is end up coming home with half of what I needed to get (should I be lucky enough to find that) and a huge screaming headache.

I know not everyone on public assistance is raping the system. For those who are, I’m paying for you, and it pisses me off. It pisses me off even more when you are jamming your grocery cart (full of things I can’t afford) up my ass all the way through Kroger’s- after you have picked the store clean of such necessities as the toilet paper that would have been on sale had it been there, the fat-free cottage cheese, the store-brand longhorn Colby cheese, the Pantene Shampoo for Color-Treated Hair (?) and the Absolutely Zero Monsters, which would also (had they been there) been on sale. There used to be a day when being on public assistance was considered humiliating. It was a necessary evil for the genuinely needy, that kept one from destitution and starvation. Public assistance is supposed to be a safety net for those who have no other choice. Now it’s almost “trendy” to shove your governmentally dependent self-righteous way through the grocery store (right over the poor saps who are paying for your sorry ass) like a bloated feeder hog at slop time. To this I say, WTF?

Perhaps it’s enjoyable to sit back and relax while other people work their asses off to pay for you. I would be ashamed to behave in such a way, but maybe I’m the one who’s wrong. Perhaps I’m the stupid one for not figuring out how to milk the system and pursue my Fanny Feline lifestyle, since I’m too old to breed and I just don’t like the idea of smoking and/or dealing crack. (In Fanny’s defense, she’s a cat, and she does what cats are supposed to do.)

The Fanny Feline Lifestyle- not bad, except I’m not into eating meat by-products and having to lick my own butt.

My one quandary in this: if you’re not working, why in the hell do you need the Absolutely Zero Monsters? To stay awake whilst doing nothing? If I didn’t have to stay awake at work, my need for caffeine would be virtually nil. If I had nothing better to do, I could get myself on the feline sleep schedule really quickly. I think Fanny sleeps 18 hours a day. That would be awesome. I wouldn’t mind being Fanny, except being a cat, she has to eat catfood (which smells nasty enough) and she has to lick her own butt.

I am just glad they weren’t out of bacon. I don’t generally eat bacon, but I do have to buy it. Occasionally I might like a few bacon crumbles (the bacon bits in the can are good enough) in potato soup, but that’s as far as it gets. Grease and salt are two things my body doesn’t need much of. But for Jerry, bacon- full fat, greasy, lardy bacon- is essential to maintain his well-being. Jerry will eat bacon when he will not eat anything else. It’s bad enough that he didn’t get his longhorn Colby cheese. I will buy the store brand for $4.79 for an 8 ounce roll when it’s available, (even though that’s outrageous) but I refuse to pay $6 for 1/2 lb. of cheese, which is what the name brand cheese costs. Call me cheap, but it’s a different world for those of us out there who have to pay for food with real money.

No high faluting fromage for you, Jerry. It is, shall we say, trés beaucoup.

I did, however score a sale on American cheese slices before all the First of the Month Zombies scarfed them up. Not the plastic imitation ones, real American cheese made with real cow’s milk. So, eat your grilled cheese and like it. It might be all you get.

Maybe it shouldn’t piss me off. Usually I don’t give a rat’s ass about what other people have versus what I have or don’t have. I don’t care about designer clothes. I don’t care if I have the latest and greatest cell phone. In spite of being a motorhead, I drive a Toyota Yaris. My last performance car was the 2000 Celica which I still regret trading in. I’ve never been an extravagant person. Maybe that’s what pisses me off- working my ass off so other people can have what I can’t afford, for free. I’ve never really aspired to having extravagant things, perhaps with the exceptions that I’ve always wanted to have an indoor pool, and I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise.

I wouldn’t mind finding him in my pool. If I were to have an indoor pool, I would need a pool boy.

Maybe I should start my own foundation to help me- a sort of Send a Cougar to Camp type concept- help the disadvantaged old bitty who’s tired of getting trampled in the grocery store. People could feel sorry for me and donate $5, $10, $20 and more to my PayPal account until I get enough money to get that indoor pool and go on my cruise. Only I’d have to say I was running for President or something outlandish like that. It worked for John Edwards, didn’t it? He got a free mistress and paid for his illegitimate child through the gratuities of others. I think the only major problem with that is I’m too honest and straightforward to get away with it. No one is going to throw money at a potential presidential candidate who would tell people how it is. I am not a very good liar.

Yes, there are two Americas. Either you are the poor sucker who gets mowed down by the feeder hogs in the store on Welfare day, or you are the feeder hog.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

Menu

Widgets

Search

cougardom