cougardom

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

Beauty Tips for the Bar Fly, Better Thee Than Me, and Double Entendre

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I am by no means anything to look at.  I try not to leave the house without makeup lest I traumatize small children and dogs, but I’ve not been shitfaced drunk since that fateful morning sometime in 1993 when I woke up submerged in a bathtub full of cold water next to a half-eaten Domino’s pizza.  Blood pressure meds and rotgut liquor don’t mix too well.   More than a half a glass of wine and I pass out these days.  So, it sort of shocked me when I got e-mails with these subject lines today:

Top  10 Bar Hopping Hairstyles

How to Get Bar Stink Out of Your Hair

and my favorite- How to Look Good Hungover.

I don’t look good stone sober.  If I would look better with a hangover, perhaps I should try it out.

I also wonder what kind of hairstyles are kind to the bar fly?  Sinead O’Connor’s? 

It’s low maintenance, there’s nothing there to absorb the bar stink,  and if someone pukes on your head, it just wipes off.  I do sort of wonder about her, though.  She shaves her head, but lets man-fur grow on her arms?  Ewww.  Let a little bit of hair grow on your head, but shave your arms!

There are a number of things in my life I am quite thankful for.  Saying goodbye forever to the purveyors of certain feminine products comes to mind.  I don’t miss one minute of Aunt Flo and the curse, believe that.  

Why do they try to make the packages seem to be so damned cheery?  Should the Naproxen bottles have stoned people and flowers on them too?

Maybe they just didn’t give me good enough drugs to enjoy all the swimming, horseback riding, kitten-cuddling, butterfly-and-unicorn watching, and lacrosse playing (???) that everyone else seemed to be doing during that “special time” of the month.  It seemed no matter how many Midols or Naproxens I managed to down that I was 1.) sitting in a sticky glob of my own stinky coagulated blood that always seemed to defy containment in those lovely feminine hygiene devices, and 2.) using every ounce of restraint (whilst inwardly writhing in pain) to keep from throttling Jerry and/or everyone else who happened to piss me off.   I don’t miss that shit one bit.  In this regard, menopause, surgical or otherwise, rules.

I love my granddaughter, don’t get me wrong, but I am quite thankful that I’m not the one dealing with car seats and diapers and so forth all the time.  Then again in a way I can sort of appreciate her more because I’m not doing the Mom thing 24-7.   I watched her for a few hours yesterday while the kids ran some errands which was very nice, but it was also very nice to go home to sleep in my own bed and only having to worry about the dogs.  Getting up and having to get Sheena out at 4AM is bad enough.   I have to wonder how Steve-o survived being an infant as insane as my schedule was, but I also admit I really regret not being able to spend much time with him other than getting the necessary things done.  I am reminded so much of how much I missed with him, but there’s nothing I can do to change it now.  I can be grateful that he’s not a serial killer, he is a straight man, and he seems to have a decent head on his shoulders -at least once you get past those nasty earrings.

I think double entendre is one of the highest forms of humor, especially when I always seem to be around people who don’t quite get it.  Mom is notorious for letting such innuendo go right over her head.  I can only hope that Steve-o does not try what he was joking about last night for a variety of reasons.  Just because it’s a pump and it generates suction does not mean it’s suitable for a certain part of the male anatomy, so leave the breast pump alone.  Ewww.  I don’t think he would do it.  Mom never even got the hint which was probably a good thing.  Catholics regard oral sex as a sin, so I am pretty sure her mind didn’t go there.   They don’t even condone masturbation the old fashioned way, so I’m pretty that any hanky-panky involving a machine of any kind would be a sin too.  Sex is only OK if you’re procreating and not enjoying it. I bet Mom would freak if she knew that (long, long ago) I actually had sex with a man, with the lights on, not in the standard missionary position, AND, I liked it. 

Now I know why I’m not Catholic.   If the opportunity for sex ever arises again (unlikely, but who knows?) at least I will be free to enjoy it.  (sans critters, of course!)

I Will Not Pander to Sappy Sentimentalism, Truth in Advertising, and Thinking About a Vay-Cay

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Dogs and cats on motorcycles?  I have seen people carry around ankle biter dogs on bikes, but I couldn’t imagine a cat putting up with that racket.

I really can’t stand those goofy-assed stick figure family stickers.  They’re too damned happy- in a really sappy way- for one thing.  The last time Jerry sported a shit eating grin like the cartoons on those decals it was because he had just won $200 on his Pick 3 tickets, and he was butt drunk.  As for my emotional state, I am doing good to stay on a nice, neutral even keel.  I get angry pretty easily, but as far as the shit eating grin, I would have to say that was some time back in the 80’s, if ever.

If I were to display those horrid stick figures on my car, I would have to design my own so I could at least have some truth in advertising.  Here’s “Beer Drinker” and “Woman, Fed Up.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to add all three dogs, all three cats and the two snakes.  They didn’t ask for stick figure humiliation, and I really don’t want the general public speculating as to whether or not I’m some kind of bizarro animal hoarder type.  It would look pretty weird to some people that there are four times as many critters in the house as there are humans.  The good news is the critters generally don’t sass, and all of them put together are cleaner and require less maintenance than Jerry does. 

It’s pretty sad, but I probably am scowling most of the time.  I should work on that.  The glass is also half-full. 

I actually scheduled a bit of vacation time.  Now let’s see if I can scrounge enough money to take a two or three day excursion to the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia- by myself if need be.  I am just weird enough to consider a foray into the wonderful world of antique medical ephemera to be a fascinating vacation.   Jerry, on the other hand, would probably be grossed out and would fail to find anything involving a museum to be a vacation.  His idea of a vacation is keeping me busy pandering to his needs so I don’t get a vacation.  This is why I am considering taking this trip on my own.  Steve-o can’t go for obvious reasons- he’s got school, work and his family to tend to.  It’s kind of sad because of all the people I know Steve-o would enjoy it the most.  But he’s an adult now and is very close to the becoming independent of the parental units phase of his development, and I would not want to do anything to interfere with that.  I should have took him to the Mütter back when he was in high school and he had nothing but time. 

 Then again, if I had the whole parenting thing to do over, and the resources to do it better, I would have done a lot of things differently.  I wish I would have been able to afford to do home schooling or to send him to a Christian school, but I wasn’t able to do either.   I know a lot of people in the educational bureaucracy would be very afraid of me (or anyone else of my political and/or social outlook) doing any kind of home schooling, but at least my son (on my insistence) actually has read the Constitution and several other things high school kids should be required to read but aren’t, such as 1984, Animal Farm, Atlas Shrugged, and The Federalist Papers.  I did make sure my son could read and communicate using the English language beyond the level of  “Whassup, dawg?”

Even though he did have to go to public school and didn’t get total immersion in the World According to elysianhunter, I won’t blame the public schools that my son can’t spell.  Most techies can’t spell.  It has something to do with the way their brains are wired.  They can get the math and the spatial skills, but for him, correct spelling makes about as much sense as algebra does to me.  I will laugh at his auto-correct fails though. 

Here’s another Truth in Advertising (sort of stick figure) decal for the car:

Bacon Flavored Man Chow, Headlines We’ll Never See, and Sarcastic?- Me?

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I don’t understand the male fascination with bacon.  Bacon is one of those things that I can eat- in small quantities- but I generally don’t because it is always greasy, and generally always disgustingly salty.  It’s fine crumbled up in potato soup but that’s about it.  Salt and grease are generally not items one wants in the diet in any kind of quantity.  Dogs like bacon too, but they are generally not known for having great culinary requirements.  Any creature who will dine on carrion and dumpster droppings generally is not reliable as a food critic.  George Carlin once questioned, (in reference to cats and “gourmet” cat food, but the principle still applies,)  “How many gourmets lick their own ass?”

When Steve-o, the illustrious Precious Only Male Child, was about four or five he went through an extreme picky eater stage.  No meat, no eggs, no vegetables.  Of course he would eat bacon – perhaps not realizing that “meat candy” is actually made of meat, or what was meat at one time.  I could only get milk down him by putting Hershey’s syrup in it.  The only vitamins he got are whatever vitamins lurk in Pop Tarts, Domino’s Pizza, Mountain Dew, and if I was lucky, ramen noodles.   It was also just my luck that the POMC was tall and large framed- and his picky eating habits were making him “thin for his height” which I got to hear incessantly at every Dr. visit from the time he was four until he was about eleven.  Most people get read the riot act because their kids are lard asses, but I never had that problem.

I got mixed messages from the Dr.s though.  Yes he was thin, yes, he needed more calories to avoid looking like a very white starving African child, but I shouldn’t cater to his demands.  “If he’s hungry enough he’ll eat eventually,” was one response.  Then I was warned, “Do you know how many men I see in my practice who will only eat hot dogs and hamburgers because their mothers fixed them special meals and didn’t make them eat a variety of foods?”

Calling raw broccoli “little trees,” and even dunking them in ranch dressing didn’t work.  He would just suck the ranch dressing off them.  I did get him to the point where he will eat a few meats- the value brand turkey lunch meat from Kroger’s, chicken wings (atomic sauce with plenty of ranch dressing,) medium-rare steak, and Arby’s roast beef.  I don’t think I’ve seen him eat a vegetable- at least not of his own volition- other than fries and ketchup. 

Steve-o was smarter than all that noise.  If he didn’t like something he wasn’t going to eat it, and no one was going to make him.  He would just wait until he was at school or at the sitter’s and then he would either mooch, or trade things for the food he wanted.   He learned the negotiatory arts at a very early age.   There were too many kids at school and at his sitter’s willing to procure him whatever goodies he wanted.  Never mind that Mom- who made us eat granola that resembled dog food in more ways than one for breakfast while other kids sucked down their Froot Loops and Cocoa Krispies-would buy him boxes and boxes of Pop Tarts and then let him free forage in the kitchen for chow.  I am not sure if spray cheese has any nutritional value but I quit buying it when I discovered why the cans turned up empty as soon as they landed in the cabinet.  Spray cheese is just too easy a man food.  Just tilt back your head, spray and swallow.  Steve-o would snarf down the whole can.

Jerry is just as bad if not worse about being a fussy eater.  He will eat vegetables and meat, but for him it’s more about the method of preparation and the spices (or hopeless lack thereof) involved.  Jerry prefers fried food with lots of salt and grease.  He does not like healthy things such as brown bread, baked meats, or anything with red sauce.  He does not like garlic or spicy things. 

But he adores bacon.  The Universal Man Food.

So if it works for the folks at Purina- “dogs don’t know it’s not bacon”- (technically that is a double negative, so apparently they do know it’s not bacon-but- the thing is they’re dogs, and a rotten possum ass will work just fine for them) then how can you expect a man with beer-addled brain cells to know the difference?

Why can’t Purina or some other food-type company come up with something sort of like the Beggin’ Strip, but the difference being it looks like bacon, smells like bacon, but is a completely nutritionally balanced food with all the vitamins and protein and fiber that men won’t eat voluntarily?  It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

“What am I gonna eeeeeeat?’ (yes, Jerry does whine like this.)

“I got you Bacon-Flavored Man Chow- it’s in the cabinet!”

“Cool,” he replies as he rips open the bag and starts sucking down those bacon-flavored strips.

I’ve always wondered why I’ve never seen women’s sumo wrestling.  I’ve been to Newark, OH.  I used to work there, and one of the perks was the fact that  clothes in my size were always marked down in the local stores- because there was no demand for any women’s clothing smaller than a 4X.  I know women get big enough to sumo wrestle, but you never see Women’s Sumo Championship in the headlines.  If men will pay money to watch skinny bimbos roll around in the mud, then why not pay to watch fat chicks sumo wrestle?  I’m sure they can make those diapers in size 20 underwear size.

Another headline that will probably never appear in my lifetime: Asian Driver Wins NASCAR Race.  Asians are too smart for NASCAR, and typically they drive slow enough to make me look like something out of Smokey and the Bandit.  For those who don’t know how conservatively I drive, I can just imagine Wang commenting to his wife Lee, “Oh, horry clap, she’s goring 62 in a 65!”

I really try not to follow politics too closely because I know how riled up I can get when I do.   I really can’t stand the current POTUS for a number of reasons none of which have to do with his race.  First of all I am not convinced he is even eligible to hold the office of president (his birth certificate is about as convincing as the one I fabricated for Sheena) and even should he be deemed eligible, he’s the Worst President Since Jimmy Carter.

B.O. Must GO!  Here’s my new bumper sticker.

Then again I shouldn’t insult Jimmy Carter like that.  Jimmy at least was an American citizen, a war veteran, and a Christian.  Where he got some of his crazy ideas I’ll never know, but at least with Jimmy his heart was in the right place even if his head was up his ass.  Obama has no heart, and I don’t think even installing a glass belly button would help him see daylight.  Where the hell did the Dumb-o-crats find this asshole and how did they get that many people- other than dead people, illegal aliens and felons- to vote for him?  As much as I am not thrilled about Mitt Romney, I’d vote for him over Obama any day.  I’d vote for Sheena, even though she’s a mentally challenged dog, rather than Obama.   At least Sheena wouldn’t try to block the pipeline and/or keep the US from using our domestic resources.  She does lick her own ass, she’s not above eating out of the trash, and she refuses to wear clothing ,which might not be hot selling points in her bid to be elected- but compared to B. O., Sheena’s a shining star of virtue.

I knew better.  Talking about politics always gets me good and pissed off – and plenty sarcastic.  As if I need help in that.

New Happenings,Getting Used to the Grandma Thing, and Advice for New Cougars

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I am thankful that my new granddaughter (yes, the prognosticatory machinations of modern science were correct, so no need to take back any of the pink and/or Hello Kitty goodies) has arrived safely and in good health.  Mom and Dad both came out of The Birth Experience pretty well, except for I had to have a few come to Jesus talks with Steve-o about why it’s a good idea to let Mom choose when and how much pain relief is necessary.   I certainly can’t imagine drug-free childbirth in any circumstance, let alone when the child is over 8#.  I’m glad she did opt for pain relief, and I’m glad that she didn’t end up needing a c-section.  I only wish that in the Murphy’s Law Childbirth Experience from Hell that I had when Steve-o was born that they would have bypassed the futile and painful 18 hours of induced labor and skipped right to the general anesthetic and c-section.  It would have been a whole lot easier that way.  Humans discovered painkillers- and surgical techniques- for just such circumstances, because there’s nothing natural about childbirth.  Unless you are a masochist and get off on pain, that is. 

Different strokes for different folks, but as far as I’m concerned, childbirth is a time to break out the good stuff like Demerol, etc.  They offer you Vicodin for a broken arm- which is nothing compared to labor pain, believe that.  I think Steve-o got the message when I suggested to him that he should have had his root canals done “natural and drug free.” Then his tune sort of changed to: “Damn straight, get the epidural!”

On the plus side, Steve-o stuck out all the messy parts including cutting the cord, so I have to say his curiosity must have won out in the end.  It’s a bonus that unlike most newborns she didn’t come out looking like a space alien or, considering that she has some of my DNA, a miniature mutant troll. Since Steve-o is a man who likes to voice his opinion, I gave him fair warning that even if the child came out looking like something from the Gremlins movie or worse, that he better at least say she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  I am glad he didn’t have to lie, because he is a really terrible liar.  Her head wasn’t even deformed, and she has long legs. Most of her mother’s family are tall people, and Steve-o, by some luck in the genetic draw, has normal sized limbs, so hopefully she might end up with better proportions than mine.   

For three days old she doesn’t look too bad.

Admittedly it’s hard to get used to the grandma thing. My grandmothers were well into their 50’s when I was born, so they were always little old ladies to me.  I still like cranking up Metallica in the car and going to the waterpark, and I still have all my teeth save my wisdom teeth that I had to have chiselled out of my jaw when I was 17. I am pleasantly surprised that Steve-o at least waited to spawn until I was over 40.  An hour and four minutes later and she would have arrived exactly on my 43rd birthday.  I am glad for the distraction.  Nobody gave a rat’s ass about my birthday, (for different reasons than usual, because my birthday is usually forgotten anyway) which was quite fine with me.

I’ve noticed a few things since I’ve joined the cougar set, as far as little survival tips.  Of course my focus is on the things the glamour mags and those horrible vapid “women’s helper” type publications never bring to light. 

Facial and Body Hair- My Personal Nemesis

One of the worst indignities associated with impending menopause and menopause itself is the proliferation of facial and body hair.  For a woman who has always viewed hair in unauthorized places to be vulgar and just plain gross, this is a difficult situation to face. It’s bad enough to have furry armpits.  A moustache on a woman- especially one of Anglo-Saxon heritage- is entirely beyond the pale.  There are only a few ways to remove said superfluous fur (that poor women like me can afford, anyway) and they all have their advantages and disadvantages. 

Shaving Pros: Relatively inexpensive, relatively effective.  Shaving Cons: Has to be re-done as often as every other day, carries some risk of inflicting injury and drawing blood. 

Tweezing Pros: Extremely inexpensive, moderately effective. Tweezing Cons: Somewhat painful, only effective for small surface areas, time consuming.

Depilatory (aka- Nair) Pros: Extremely effective, can be used over a large surface area, moderately fast. Depilatory Cons: Stinks to holy high heaven, can burn holes in your face if you leave it on too long, messy.

Waxing Pros: Extremely effective, lasts a long time.  Waxing Cons: Hurts like a son of a bitch, can’t even be done until the hair grows way out and you look like Sasquatch.

There are only a few areas that are acceptable for hair growth on women.  The scalp, a finely sculptured brow, and eyelashes.  Everything else (and I do mean everything) should be devoid of fur. At least if all the unacceptable fuzz is removed there is no quandary as to whether or not the curtains match the carpet- and no need for the hair dye that is supposedly available to tint the hair that grows in unmentionable areas. I find it hard to imagine worrying about whether or not I have grey pubes.  Better to shave all that off for aesthetic and hygienic reasons.  It’s just not right for women to scratch their business in public.  A dude may finger his package in public with impunity, but impulsive crotchal scratching is not considered to be suitable etiquette for the fairer gender.

There are some things that we cougars can get away with though.  Ogling hot young stud muffins for instance.  What sweet young treat would be intimidated by an old bitty who’s old enough to be his mother?

Yes we look.  We still undress you with our eyes, believe that, boys.

 

 

Greetings from Nattyvana- Wish You Were Here!- and Sometimes The Possum Really is Dead

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Nattyvana: That drunk-and-stupid state of mind one reaches after consuming a 12 pack or more of Jerry’s favorite Anheuser-Busch product- Natural Lite.

Never mind that Natty is only 4.2% alcohol. Never mind, but I can only imagine that horse piss has more flavor.  It is a “value priced” beer after all.  It takes persistence, but if you drink enough of it, you can get shitfaced.   Personally if my aim were to get shitfaced, I’d go for something with a lot more punch, like Jägermeister (35%- 70 proof)- if you can get past the fact it tastes just like Formula 44-  or just plain straight vodka (Stolichnaya is 40% or 80 proof.) 

To me drinking beer to get drunk is like driving through the ghetto to get to work.  You’ll get there eventually, but it takes longer, smells worse, and carries a higher element of danger than taking the freeway.  I don’t like the taste of beer anyway.  Natty isn’t the worst beer out there (take it from someone who used to party with people who drank Schaefer Light) but it’s pretty nasty even for beer.   It’s chock full of all-natural formaldehyde, with a wispy aroma vaguely reminscent of onion-tainted sweat socks and a despondent resignation to a life of obscurity and ignominy.  Whether or not Natural Lite is derived from anything “natural” I don’t know.  I do know that “all-natural” does not always mean “beneficial” or “healthy.”

All-Natural Ways to Die (for instance)

*Arsenic is an all-natural heavy-metal poison. (not to be confused with the 80’s heavy-metal band, Poison, though I can cite far better examples of that music genre)

*Ebola is an all-natural deadly virus.

*Black Mamba venom is an all-natural venomous poison.

*You can be eaten by an all-natural shark, should you choose to go into the water.

*You can be mauled and partially devoured by an all-natural grizzly bear.

*You can fall off of an all-natural cliff, or asphyxiate on all-natural bat guano fumes in an all-natural bat cave.

If you’re a possum, you can have the (mostly) all-natural Lilo the GSD/Chow mix snap your neck for you.

I’m glad I don’t get drunk anymore, if only because I have to be somewhat aware and sane to handle stuff like this.  The dogs do occasionally bring home some rather grisly finds. 

I really do feel sorry for the woodland creatures who dare to venture into our back yard.  This I think is probably Possum #4 for Lilo.  Her possum kill rate is rather surprising given that Lilo is 1. crosseyed, 2. bow-legged, and 3. slow.  Yet Lilo (unlike most dogs) is primarily an ambush hunter.  She lies in wait and then springs on her prey when they are unaware.  Clara and Sheena hunt like regular dogs- flushing and chasing.  Perhaps Lilo has had success with possums because they too are slow and low to the ground and can’t see that well.  I still feel sorry for the critters, though.

This poor unfortunate beast was immobile but still appeared to be breathing when Lilo deposited it in front of the kitchen door.  Jerry assumed that it was simply “playing possum” and acting dead so he scooped it up and put it back outside.  Sadly I found it the following morning, deader than a doornail.  Apparently it wasn’t just an act, or it was too badly injured to recover.  I tried to tell Jerry that I thought Lilo had snapped its neck, but hope springs eternal.  I was hoping she hadn’t mortally wounded it. If it did wake up I wanted it to be outside in its natural habitat, so if it were just stunned or playing possum it wouldn’t be waking up out in the foyer.  That’s all I need, some wild critter staring up at me with a mouthful (possums have 50 teeth- 8 more than dogs- which is a scary thought) of razor sharp teeth snarling at me as I’m trying to let the dogs out for their morning constitutional.

I very seldom drink anyway, and when I do, I drink wine, because I like the taste of wine.  Just a small glass will take me on a trip to mellow town. I don’t need to get shitfaced on it.  The last time I was truly shitfaced was almost 20 years ago, and I have no desire to wake up submerged in freezing water in a motel room bathtub with a half-eaten Domino’s pizza sitting on the ledge. 

It’s good that my health pretty much forbids me from doing much drinking.  I’m on enough blood pressure meds to kill most people outright, so I usually fall asleep before I can really start pounding ’em.  When I did drink to excess, back in the day, I was a forget-it-all drunk.  All I remember about one drinking party I went to in college was that yes- I did finish the whole fifth of MD 20/20, but I couldn’t remember whether or not I had slept with one of my friends’ skanky, geeky twin brother.  Nobody would enlighten me as to whether or not he had gotten lucky either- not until after I knew the coast was clear.  Since I had given up hope and let my birth control pill script run out, I had a rather harrowing two weeks of “waiting for Aunt Flo.”  Once everyone knew I was “safe”-then they told me what really happened- that he had passed out before I did, so I was never even subjected to the possibility of actually contributing to passing on that particular freakazoid’s genes.  Thanks, guys.  But at least they didn’t leave me passed out with my drawers down and my butt hanging out of the bathtub like what happened to one of my other friends.  When you weigh over 300# it is never a good thing to pass out on the toilet, especially if that’s the only toilet in the house.  Just saying.

It’s a lot safer to observe and let everyone else get drunk and stupid.  If only there had been such a thing as YouTube in the mid-80’s.  It’s probably a good thing that we were too poor for video cameras back then.

Sports, Spectatorship, Wine (without the “h”) and Alternative Activities

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I am not a sports fan.  I can appreciate the aesthetics of men’s swimming and men’s figure skating, (even though those sports are generally not popular with straight men) but as far as organized sport in general goes, I would have to side with my Dad.  Sports are only fun if they have the word “motor” in front of them, and I’m not talking about NASCAR.  Three hours or more of a continuous left turn is only fun to watch when they wreck.  I can imagine that it would be more fun to watch the redneck freak show in the stands than to watch the actual race.  I don’t think I could bear to hear that much country music or see that many visions of inbred, badly dressed,  poorly tattooed, dentally challenged, over-fed humanity.   The denizens of Wal Mart take a field trip!  I think I’ll pass.

When I refer to worthwhile motorsports, I am talking about ones to participate in- such as off-roading, rally racing, drag racing, or boating. 

For instance, I would get into off-roading big time if I had an FJ40 like the one pictured above.  Old Landcruisers are awesome.  I always liked the Landcruiser guys when I worked in Toyota dealerships.  Landcruiser guys are generally easy to work with, willing to pay whatever it takes to get all the goodies for their trucks, and technically knowledgable.  The bad thing is, Landcruisers- at least the old FJ40 series-are virtually indestructible, but they’re difficult (and expensive) to acquire and maintain in Central Ohio.  I would have to have plenty of money and time to get into off-roading in an FJ40.

But because I’m a poor old cougar, I have to entertain myself on a budget. 

I don’t care much for football.  I just don’t have the attention span, and they wear way too many clothes.  I think I’ve figured out how guys do it though.  I’ve never seen a guy watch a football game without sucking down lots and lots of brews.  Apparently beer makes it more exciting.  Since I’ve never been a beer drinker, watching football just doesn’t work for me.  I like wine, (without the “h”) but who goes to watch football over a vintage cabernet- or as is more likely in my case- a bottle of Gallo or Sutterhome?  MD 20/20, maybe, but that’s not technically wine.  And I generally only need a small glass of Gallo or Sutterhome to go to sleep quite nicely. 

Oversight at the BMV, Avoiding Attracting the Attention of Law Enforcement, and “Sexy Time”

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Just when you thought you’d seen it all, it appears that my Mom, or someone else at the same level of naiveté, got a job at the BMV approving vanity plates.  For some reason the Central Ohio area is notorious for not only the number of but the rather “saucy” variety of vanity plates one sees every day.  I’ve seen some good ones, but this one takes the prize.  I don’t think that the registered owner of this vehicle was talking about Boysenberry Jam. (the quality of this video isn’t the greatest, and the scene I’m talking about begins at 3:59- Granny and her boysenberry jam…right…but it’s funny as hell.)  I can’t see any clean reference that would go with these plates.  They remind me of Borat and the “sexy time” reference.  Now I’m stuck with the Borat in his singlet bathing suit thing image in my head.

Not such a sexy time after all, eh?

I’ve never really been tempted by the whole vanity plate thing.  In my opinion the only thing that having a vanity plate does for you is help to make you cop bait, and I strive not to attract the attention of law enforcement.  I really don’t want my vehicle to be memorable or easily identifiable.  Granted, no one is ever going to mistake a Yaris sedan for a race car, and I’m enjoying the bland anonymity that is one of the perks of middle age.  When I was a young punk I really would have enjoyed having my VW Rabbits painted hot pink, but Dad never let me do that.    I did enjoy- much to Dad’s disdain- affixing every bumper sticker I could find to my distressed old Subaru. 

I don’t think pithy pro-conservative, pro-America tidbits on bumper stickers would raise a cop’s eyebrow any more than an FOP booster sticker would, so I have no qualms about displaying my political commentary for all to see.

One of the nice things about cougardom is that the world at large regards you as harmless.   I can sit back and stare at the young stud muffins as much as I want and fantasize about their hot bods with impunity and no one’s the wiser.  I blend right into the wall.  That reminds me how necessary a pool membership just might be this year.  I enjoyed the cougar pool last summer, but the scenery wasn’t exactly stunning.  Perhaps I will compromise and take a couple of day trips to the lake, or to the indoor waterpark, which I have been meaning to do and haven’t yet.   There is something to be said for going down a waterslide in the middle of winter.

Last night I had to take poor Lilo back to the Vet for her stinking allergies.  I know, she’s part Chow and they are horribly prone to skin allergies, but I’ve tried everything I know to keep her cleared up.  The dogs’ food is corn free.  They are clean and don’t have fleas and crud on them.  It’s winter so there’s no pollen.  The only thing I can think of now that could be bothering her is cigarette smoke.  The other two dogs beat feet when Jerry lights up, but Lilo doesn’t leave the room.  So Lilo is stuck with another month’s worth of Keflex (so she doesn’t get another inner ear infection) and prednisone to clear up her ass crusties and keep her from gnawing her hide to pieces.  The only good thing about all the pills is that Lilo (also known as “Lilo the Inhaler,”  the “Food Ho,” or just plain “Ho,”)  is easy to pill.  She will take anything if it’s sitting on top of a spoonful of cottage cheese, or mashed potatoes, or gravy, or ice cream, whatever, as long as it’s food.  Sheena is the same way about meds- it’s as easy as sticking a pill in or on a bite of anything she likes to eat.  Clara is exactly the opposite.  She will find and spit out the pill regardless of what you try to put it in- even peanut butter.  By the time Clara finished the 30 day course of Keflex she had to have when she was hit by a car and had the seroma where the skin over her armpit was torn open, I was burying pills inside a melty warm cheese sandwich to get her to take them.  I never thought dogs were picky eaters until I got Clara.  Unlike most dogs, she actually inspects and chews her food.  I wonder if all Belgian Malinois are that funky about food.  Ironically, she’s not nearly as fussy about sticking her nose in our friends’ crotches (her nose is right at about crotch level on an average sized person) or up the other dogs’ butts.  But she is a dog after all.

It’s hard to believe that my granddaughter’s arrival is merely days away.  If I had to speculate I would say give it a week or two.  I think she will be a bit early, but who knows?  The baby shower is Sunday.  I have a boatload of stuff for her.  I wish they would come up with a name for her, or I might just have to do it.  I don’t think they will appreciate me calling their little girl “Princess” for very long.

Putting the “SH” in IT, Central Ohio Winter, (Behold the White Death,) and Nasty ’70’s Cars

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Why is it that technical people (and being a techie type I have to include myself in this critique also) can be so dour?  Computer professionals, especially, seem to have especially shitty attitudes.  I can’t blame them based on the capricious nature of IT in general, but a joke?  A smile, maybe?   Perhaps it has to do with being emotionally stunted or having an undue emphasis on the life of the mind versus the life of the heart.  It’s just not a balanced way to live, and sometimes the emotional demons break through at the most inopportune and irrational times.   I trust my mind most of the time- it keeps me on the steadfast and staid (though often boring) path of reliability and predictability.  When I “follow my heart” it almost always leads me to trouble- although the path to trouble often includes some intrigue and adventure.  Though it defies my sense of rationality and order, a little unpredictability and intrigue is essential for mental health.  So from time to time even I have to go off the deep end, even as much as I despise maudlin displays of emotion. 

I think it’s interesting that it’s occasionally necessary to simply take a mental vacation (especially when a physical vacation isn’t feasible) and just do something goofy for the hell of it.  Perhaps this is the logic behind the human need for humor.  All work and no play makes me even more boring than I am already.  Lately I find myself so boring I put myself to sleep- so I have had to find a few irrational pursuits.

Target had some novelty fart putty cups for $1 apiece in their discount section.  Of course I couldn’t pass up something this crude and sophomoric at such a discount price. Fart noises are always funny, so I have periodically been annoying my coworkers with fake flatulence.  Everyone needs a hobby.

Vacation is one of my favorite movies.  The car is a modified (tackily, but that’s the point) Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon.  Mom actually had one of these (without the modifications.)  I think that was the last V8 Dad let Mom have.  It was a typical old Ford in that the steering was horrid (the wheel had about 2 inches at least of play in it) and the suspension was spongy- but it would go like a bat out of hell in a straight line.  I think Mom got the 95-in-a-25 violation in the ’77 LTD sedan, but both the ’75 station wagon and the ’77 sedan had the 351 Windsor engine that Dad liked.  Both cars were horribly fugly, a handling nightmare, and did good to get 12MPG- if you kept your foot out of it.  I think Dad disengaged the secondary advance on the ’77 after Mom got busted in it, which is sort of like closing the barn door once the horse has run away.

70’s domestic cars were most abysmal.  FYI: The “wood grain” was actually adhesive stickers.

Mom actually had a 70’s car worse than the LTDs.  At least the LTDs would start and run.  The Dodge Aspen wagon generally wouldn’t even do that if the temperature dropped below 60 degrees F, which is quite often in beautiful Central Ohio.  If it got hotter than about 70 degrees, the thermostat would stick shut and it would overheat and/or the fuel pump would vapor lock.  I can’t remember how many times Dad had this POS towed, or how many fuel pumps, carburetors and thermostats he put on it, but when all was said and done I think he wanted to fire bomb it.  It was simply a piece of really shitty engineering.  The plus side of the Aspen, at least as far as Mom’s driving record went, when it did run, is it was a very underpowered 4 cylinder.  If you were lucky enough to get it up to 60MPH it would shake and shimmy like nobody’s business, then it would sputter and die.

Fugly, and not terribly functional.  The 1977 Dodge Aspen Wagon.  Now you know why I drive Toyotas.

These things, by comparison at least, made a beat up old VW Rabbit look like (and perform like) a freaking sports car.

Today we are supposed to get some snow and freezing rain.  I’ll believe it when I see it, but I am sure that the local redneck population will be clearing the stores out of Velveeta cheese and Marlboros before the end of the day.  Some things never change.

At least the cop got HIS smokes.

I sincerely thank God I don’t smoke anymore.  And I already have Velveeta cheese.

 

Ode to the Winter Funk, 54 Going on Two, and I Need a Cougar Cruise

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Shit Happens.

The bad thing about the recent cruise ship disaster is that it’s a reminder that almost every time I plan a vacation and either a.) take Jerry with me, and/or 2.) spend money doing it,  that disaster is exactly what I end up with.  Taking Jerry with me simply means I will spend three or four times more than I’d budgeted for as well as I will be treated to a “vacation” of catering to him.  Oh, how I remember the 20 mile excursion through rural West Virginia to find a KFC, only to return to the hotel and discover they neglected to put eating utensils in with the dinners, and the lovely evenings spent in the smoking cubicle of the Niagara Falls Hooters because they were the only restaurant within walking distance that served American beer.  Believe me, Canadian cuisine leaves a lot to be desired anyway, (the food tasted greasy and bland with a faint hint of Clorox everywhere we went in the Niagara Falls area) and Hooters’ wings are way overrated even if you get them in the States. 

I will have to do some research if and when I ever get the opportunity to go on a cougar cruise.  The idea of being on a cruise ship (statistically, boating on an ocean liner is safer than driving, so why not?) still appeals to me even if I am the type of person who has to wear Factor 50 to walk out the door in the daylight.  Nobody said I had to use the outdoor pool.  However, I will make sure of a few things.  First of all I am not really one of those people who wants an iron clad schedule.  I understand that the ship stops at certain ports and you have a definite timeframe should you wish to go ashore.  That’s fine, a loose framework.  But to follow a group around in a micromanaged sort of fashion does not appeal to me at all.  Give me two hours to go investigate something and let me wander around and come back. 

The last time I took any time off for any type of what could loosely be called vacation activity was last June when I took Mom and Dad to NC.  In a curious turn of events, it seems when you do the math, it can easily be discerned that my soon-to-be born granddaughter was conceived right about that time.  That’s what I get for having Steve-o come to watch the dogs and leaving them free food and movies, but they are adults.  Sometimes things happen when young adults get bored, even if you do leave out the good movies like Super Troopers,  The Jerk, Beavis and Butthead Do America, Clerks I and II, Porky’s, and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.   I know it’s been a long time but even I can (distantly) remember young lust.  There was a time in my life (when the air was dirty but sex was clean- if and when I could find a compliant partner-) that any excuse was a good excuse to get busy.

I still need a real vacation, as in 1.) getting away geographically, including turning off the farking phone, 2.) getting away from being a babysitter, which means Jerry will have to fight the dogs for food for a few days, and 3.) going somewhere interesting to do interesting things. 

The problem with this is that in order to do any of the above for any length of time, one needs cash.  With Mr. 54-going-on-two going on his regular throw money away pity parties at the hell-hole every time he gets the least bit irritated at work I don’t see this happening.  It’s pretty sorry when you can’t trust a grown man to stay out of a rip-off gambling joint.  I would leave him at home alone for a few days if I could take most of his cash, all his plastic and his debit card so he wouldn’t be able to go to the hell-hole.  I figure he could eat on $10 per day, but he would have to do without beer and smokes.  Pity that….

I guess that’s enough of me channeling my inner bitch, although it gets aggravating.  I know winter in Central Ohio is depressing especially when you can go from torrential rain to frozen tundra in 24 hours or less.  One thing about January weather is that odds are, it’s going to suck.

Lachrymal Musings, Intersecting Spheres, Defying Entropy (and a Rear-End Thermometer Too!)

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I thoroughly enjoy historical places- especially ones that have been tastefully restored.  Usually one of two things happen to historical places and either option breaks my heart.  Either they are completely razed to the ground or are left to rot with maybe a haphazard or architecturally and/or aesthetically poor attempt at restoration.  The Harding Hotel pictured above by and large is a tasteful restoration of a building that had been left to rot for over 25 years.  The lower floors have the original restored woodworking (very lovely and I should have taken pics the last time I was there…) and are used as reception halls and conference rooms, while the upper floors have been converted into senior citizen apartments.

Ironically the hotel hadn’t even been finished before President Harding died, so it was never really used for its intended purpose, which was to be a high-faluting hotel for dignitaries and others to frequent when President Harding came back to town.   What ended up happening is that the hotel builders built that day’s equivalent to a Hilton in the middle of nowhere.  Once President Harding died, nobody was looking too much to Marion, OH as a high-faluting tourist destination.  Granted, today the Popcorn Festival brings some local crowds, but these aren’t the kind of people who go for four or five star digs.  These are rednecks in Dale Earnhardt wife-beater t-shirts, whose behemoth women sport too-small tank tops and tacky tramp stamps, whose kids don’t wear shoes until they have to go to school, and for whom silverware at meal times is a formality.  If one lives far enough away (or drinks too much beer to drive home) the Super 8 has cable, an indoor pool, and it’s really close to both the Steak-n-Shake and the exit ramp to US23.

Perhaps I shouldn’t diss redneck culture the way I do, but there is a small part of me that bemoans the lack of civility and grace in society that seemed far more evident in the past.  If one looks at photography from the 1950’s and earlier one does not see tramp stamps, tank tops, large women wearing no bras, wife-beater t-shirts or just general slovenliness.  All those drugs in the 1960’s must have warped people’s brains.  Granted, they gave us Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, but I could have done without the whole hippie no-bathing-let-it-all-hang-out trend which really hasn’t completely gone away.  Some things resist entropy until the very end, or perhaps slovenliness and unkempt appearances are the butt-end of entropy, and therefore it remains the same because it has achieved its chaotic goal.  I would have liked to think that an age of enlightenment would have involved clean clothes and soap, but my priorities are never the same as the rest of the world’s.

The 80’s weren’t bad from a general clothing perspective, (especially buff dudes in Spandex) but if I  had to pick a fashion decade it would have to be the 1940’s.  Fashion designers were probably still queer, but they weren’t designing everything so it only fits and looks good on emaciated 12 year old boys.  I think by 1965 or so somebody forgot that women are supposed to have boobs, and some women with ample chests like to wear clothing that said boobs don’t fall out of.  At least it is still possible, with a little work, to find bathing suits that do not expose midriff or have such huge leg holes that the whole world gets to see most of your butt cheeks as well as most of your surgical scars and/or stretch marks.  I need a bathing suit to do a couple of important things- restrain the puppies so that they don’t fly up out of the top of the bathing suit when I go off the diving board, and cover everything from my boobs to as far south as mid-thigh.  That’s what I need to both prevent “wardrobe malfunctions,” and to keep from revealing things better left unseen, such as surgical scars and stretch marks.  I don’t want to share the pool with projectile vomiters.

 

Above  is an example of  acceptable swim attire for me.  It’s the only exception I ever make to the “shirts must have sleeves” rule.

Below is an example of swimwear that will never be acceptable to me, even if I were as anorexic-thin as Calista Flockhart (which I am definitely not.)

Nobody on God’s green earth would ever want to see me in one of these things.  Speaking of swimwear, I simply had to notice that Target was right on it with the swimwear display.  On January 5th.  This is Ohio, people.  Unless you are lucky enough to belong to an indoor pool, or to vacation in the Bahamas, I don’t see the point in buying swimwear now that won’t get worn until at least Memorial Day.  I find it rather impossible to think about buying bathing attire when there’s three feet of snow outside and it’s 10 degrees.

Fashion has taken some rather abysmal turns in recent years, especially with the lack of coverage.  I would be a lot happier if it suddenly became trendy for guys to refrain from displaying hairy butt cleavage and boxer short waist bands.  It would thrill me if teenage girls would refrain from dressing like scantily clad prostitutes, and that it would again become trendy for dresses and women’s shirts to have sleeves.  I could do the Stevie Nicks 1985 or thereabouts look just fine, including the platform shoes. I also wish it were more socially acceptable for women to wear hats, for instance.  I enjoy wearing hats.  Perhaps I should have been born in England, where it is perfectly acceptable for white women to wear outlandish hats.

I’m trying really hard to stay out of my inevitable winter funk, but it’s not easy.  I don’t mind the cold- and it hasn’t been terribly cold so far as Central Ohio winters go- but I do mind the dark.  Dark when I wake up.  Dark when I go to work.  Dark when I go home.  Acck.  I only see daylight on the weekends, if I can stay awake long enough.   Maybe that’s why the world looks like such a hopeless and pathetic place by the end of February.  Snowbooger grey.

In Victorian times there were all sorts of maudlin displays surrounding death and mourning.  Particularly intriguing was the lachrymatory or tear bottle.  The idea was that when a loved one died you saved your tears in the bottle and on the one year anniversary of the death you sprinkled the tears on the grave.  I can’t help but think that the Victorians got this idea from a Biblical reference:

“Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?” Psalm 56:8 (KJV)

I’m not much of a crier.  The only problem I have with my tearful outbursts is that they come out at the most inopportune and bizarre times.  I can’t do the tears on demand thing, and tears elude me at the point of pain.  I almost always go to funerals as a stoic, silent observer, detached from the surroundings, no matter how close I was to the deceased or how grieved I am over the death, but my tears come later, sometimes 20 years later, unbidden, like a sudden storm on a summer day. 

Sometimes I want to cry and I can’t, no matter how much better it would make me feel, especially when the weight of sorrow and longing and regret is almost more than I can carry.  I almost wish I could be a woman who wears her emotions on her sleeve- it’s probably healthier- but I usually have to deal with my heart in private and in the dark.  It’s more dignified that way.