cougardom

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

elysianhunter’s “Inferno” (Hell as I See It) and Its Denizens, Swamp Life, and I Need a Hobby

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I believe in a literal hell.  Dante did too, although he was a far better writer than I, and his perspective on hell is distinctively colored by Roman Catholic traditions and the political intrigues of his day.  The French have a saying: “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.”  The literal English translation is, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”  The Cliff’s Notes English translation is a simple acronym: SSDD. (Same Shit, Different Day.) It can be not only good satire to envision the populace of hell from time to time, it can also prove cathartic.  The thought that greater punishment awaits those who offend me might keep me from throttling someone, who knows?

I’m going to start off my virtual tour of hell with Beezelbub himself, even though Ol’ Splitfoot is on a brief hiatus from life in hell, and is currently wreaking nine kinds of havoc here on earth:

As you can see, right now, Lucifer has been loosed upon the earth to deceive the masses and to gather up his minions.   He is acting swiftly, and with a vengeance, because his time is short.  I hope his time in office is very short.  My countdown to January 20, 2013 reads 626 days, 7 hours and 53 minutes as of the minute I am typing this.

Fannyzilla, at the Gates of Hell, says:  “Yoose is Skrewed!  Abandonn Yer Chezebooger! Yoose No Can Has Chezebooger No Mo!”  

The first level of hell belongs to People Who Drive Like Assholes.

You know them.  We have all been behind the idiot who doesn’t realize he is tooling all over creation with only one (barely) working tail light.  That’s bad enough, but if you rear-end the prick, the cop is going to cite you.   I’ve had more than a few ABS checks (believe me, you will know it when you lock up your brakes and engage the ABS system) because some people are too stupid to occasionally check their bulbs.  Included in this category also is the idiot who insists in staying in your blind spot and not letting you over, the rapper whose car vibrates his car, your car and the pavement at every stop light while he’s treating everyone in half the county to a hideous diatribe about cop killing and sister-rape, and the bimbo who can’t talk on the phone and operate her turn signal at the same time.

The first level people will get to spend eternity forced to sit in a Dr.s’ office waiting room whilst being bombarded with whatever swill is on daytime network TV,i.e., Oprah, Montel, Jerry Springer, Judge du Jour, and you will be surrounded by sickies who are snotting and sneezing all over you.  The worst part is, just like in Dr.s’ offices here on earth, you will wait and wait and wait and you will never be called in.

Level Two is reserved for people who fail to control their heathen rugrats in Target, Wal Mart, Kroger’s or any other public emporium where everyone must go at some point to buy survival items (such as food, hair color and toilet paper) that can’t generally be purchased online.

The punishment will fit the crime.  Level Two residents will be condemned to walk the aisles of Target for eternity, surrounded by Queen Banchee (the memorable five year old who once stood in the end of the shopping cart screaming her lungs out all over Target while her Mom just kept plodding along in an apparent Valium-induced catatonic haze) and her minions as they scream, writhe on the floor, run all over the store, throw pointy things, and generally make you forget why you went to Target in the first place.  You are doomed to wander the Target store, with these wretched urchins as your constant companions, and you never will remember that you went to Target in the first place because you were out of toilet paper.

Level Three is for corrupt politicians and bold face liars, such as those who gravitate toward pandering careers in media.

I won’t just go ahead and just say “Democrats” because there might be one or two good ones out there, and there may be a GOP’er or two that lands on the shady side.   I mean corrupt politicians on the scale of a Bill Clinton- a guy who seriously questions things like the meaning of the word “is,” and who answers to a moral dilemma by stating that oral sex isn’t really sex.   I also mean media personalities who can flat out lie to the American people and spin the truth a 180- with a straight face.   Level Three residents will be doomed to an eternity of living in a giant cat box.  Imagine if you were about the same size as a Barbie doll and you were forced to stay in the cat box forever, even when the cat, who is three times your size, drops in to drop a deuce.  On your head.  And the cat “offerings” are also your dinner.   That would be Level Three.  In life you fed people shit and expected them to eat it and like it.  Now it’s your turn.  Bon Appetit!

The Fourth Level (and this is the final level in my version of hell, because you can’t get much worse than living in a cat box and eating cat shit for eternity) is reserved for the most vile of them all.  Child molesters, rapists and murderers end up here.

Fourth Level scumbags will receive kerosene enemas 24-7, with eternally burning kerosene.  While the enemas are taking place, all will be forced to listen to the song “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” by Culture Club, and watch the accompanying video. All Boy George, all the time.

Yes, for the record, I would like to hurt him.  I’d kick him in the crotch, but I doubt if there’s anything there.

Life here in the Central Ohio swamp would be a bit nicer if we actually did see the sun once in awhile (this pic was taken last year) but the torrential rains (yes, I know May is still Monsoon season) this year are a bit much.  Poor Sheena had to drop a deuce in a driving downpour this morning.  They have the “Potty Patch” for ankle biters so they can do the deed in the house, but that’s not practical for bigger dogs who put off gallons of liquid waste and solid wastes are measured in “shovelfuls.”  For reference: a dog will eliminate ten percent of his/her body weight per day.  A 50# dog will leave 5# of waste per day.  Given that my dogs are 55#, 65# and 65#, that’s 18 1/2# of dog waste generated by my girls every day.  They are not going to use the inside of the house as their toilet.  Short of them actually using the toilet and flushing, I can’t think of any containment device that can deal with that volume of toxic waste.

Big dogs need a lean-to relief station- outside, sort of like the beer tent at a street festival, only the dogs would be more discreet in relieving themselves.  This way they’re still outside but they don’t have to stand and squat in a downpour.  I have to contemplate this one.  Everyone needs a hobby.  Keeping my dogs dry while they pinch a loaf would be a very good thing.

The Squattin’ Station.  For big dogs, so they can drop their loads outside and still stay dry.  The only thing is that in Central Ohio you would need to be sure to anchor it securely otherwise the wind will pick it up and drop it off in the next county.

Conspiracy Theories, Dead Terrorists, and Men Who Wear Pants Pulled Up to the Waist

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I hope Osama is dead.  I don’t care who killed him, (though I must admit, as far as methods go, you can’t beat assassination by Navy SEALs, if that’s what really happened,)  or even if he choked to death on a hot dog (preferably a pork hot dog, if the true mode of death was asphyxiation by wiener.)  If he is indeed, dead, the world has been rid of someone almost as twisted and evil as Hitler.  Most people, excepting radical Muslims, regardless of their political preferences, are probably glad to hear this dude is taking the Dirt Nap- or in his case, Swimming With the Fishes.  I just have a lingering twinge of doubt in the back of my mind regarding: a.) did Obama have anything to do with the death of Osama?, and b.) whether or not Osama is really, truly dead. 

The timing of the Osama killing couldn’t be better for Obama.  It’s taken the attention away from the whole birth certificate fiasco (don’t know what to believe on that one either, but I seriously doubt Obama was born anywhere near Hawaii – or any other US state,) and from gasoline prices killing the economy- again. 

I smell price fixing, collusion, and just plain boldface lies- and at the center of it?  Obama.

Osama may have already been dead for years- or he may have dropped dead of some natural cause, and Obama’s been saving up the Osama Assassination Event to build up his street cred at a particularly strategic hour.  I can’t think of a better strategic hour than right now.  With the 2012 election coming up and his poll numbers in the crapper, he needs something to get the American people’s minds off of the very real possibility that not only do we have a sitting President who is ineligible to hold the office – and is crazy enough to run again,  he could also use something to distract Joe Sixpack from the fact that it’s going to cost him half the national debt to fill up his F-150.  The economy is going straight down the toilet while Obama and his pet contributors are on the take, and it appears that’s exactly how he planned it.  What better than a dead terrorist as a distraction- better yet, the Grand Pappy terrorist of them all?  It just smells very fishy- and way too expedient- to me.

The other thing I don’t get is why do we as Americans give a rat’s ass if Osama gets a proper Muslim burial?  Do terrorists assure that all the Christians they kill get appropriate Christian burial rites?  Do they have priests on the ready to give last rites to Catholics who die at terrorists’ hands?  And what about Jews?  Jews have their burial rules too, and I bet terrorists really don’t observe those either. I don’t think it was the US Navy’s responsibility to do anything other than make sure he’s dead and put the body put somewhere where it wouldn’t stink and draw flies. 

Burial at sea, while hygienic (granted-it won’t stink and draw flies six fathoms beneath the sea,) and a perfect way to maintain an unmarked grave, poses too many credibility questions.  How do we know they didn’t wrap up a couple of bags of cow manure in a white sheet and toss them over the edge and just say it was Osama?  I think they should have put him in the freezer and sent his carcass to a taxidermist so he could be mounted and displayed, so people could see for themselves that he’s really dead. 

Admittedly, today I’ve gone from my normal baseline pragmatism right into the heart of cynicism, but who can blame me?   I don’t trust Obama any further than I could throw him.  I don’t trust the media, who is in cahoots with him.  I also don’t trust the string-pullers who are price-gouging and profiteering and doing their damnedest to engineer another economic crisis.  All of these events don’t make me want to re-elect Obama.  They make me wish Congress would  have the stones to impeach him now, and run him and his cronies out on a rail. 

Anyway, I shouldn’t get too hung up on things I can’t change.  I have to deal with them, and while I still have the freedom to comment on them as I see them, I’m going to.  

Today I came across a man after my own heart.  I love this guy.  His commentary on the abysmal condition of  “customer service” in retail is a bit cheeky, but mostly true.   I know I’m getting old.  I bemoan the extinction of the Man Who Wears His Pants Pulled Up to the Waist with No Visible Underwear or Butt Crack. 

Pull up your damned pants!  Maybe I’m just old, but there’s no mystique or attraction to be found in some dude’s hairy, sweaty butt crack, or in getting a visual of his boxers or whitey-tighties.  I want to see dudes with their pants at the waist.

Sort of Like a Car Wreck, Funky Hats, and Strange Clothes

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I didn’t intend to watch the Royal Wedding, but since it was on every single channel that Jerry relies upon for news, I got treated to a few bits and pieces.   I found another big difference between the UK and the US also, and I found it a bit disquieting.  I’ve never seen white American women wear the funky hats like I saw on today’s wedding guests.  The last time I saw hats like that, they were on black women dressed up for church.  The only white woman I’ve ever seen wearing big funky hats is the Queen.  She was wearing a nice big yellow one today, which I thought looked nice on her. 

I would love to wear that hat out in public- even though I am as white as what comes out of a Wonder bread factory- but if I showed up for church with that on I would likely get some giggles, and not a few stares. 

I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid to wear the (much tamer) vintage pink satin hat (or any of the other various vintage dress hats) I do have out in public, and it’s a shame.  Hats are fun.  Why should white American women be denied them?  British women wear them.  Black American women wear them.  Why not us?

Since when did I give a rat’s ass about others’ opinions on my personal choices in millinery?  Or anything else for that matter?

I should wear the pink satin hat to church and see if anyone says anything about it.

The whole royal wedding business is sort of like a car wreck, as Jerry found out this morning.  He kept watching it in spite of himself, and he’s a dude. (at least the last time I checked…) You really don’t want to watch it, because you don’t know anyone involved in it, and the whole pomp and circumstance thing seems kind of silly to most Americans, but there’s something painfully compelling about it,  just like when there’s a car wreck and everyone has to stop and gawk at it.  You know you shouldn’t, but you do anyway.

The arrival of the minivans/microbuses sort of surprised me.  Perhaps they were shuttles from far-flung parking areas, because there weren’t enough valets to drive everyone’s car back and forth, but there’s something anticlimatic about arriving to such a Big Event in a glorified Mom van.  It put me slightly in mind of the Town and Country Hearse conversion.  If I have to go to a high faluting event and wear scratchy clothes, be friendly with people I don’t know from Adam’s housecat, and be on my best behavior, I want to make an Entrance rather than ride in a microbus with fifteen other people.  But then again, how people arrive at such events is determined by how far up the chain you are.   At an event like this I would be the Turd Entering the Punch Bowl,  like I had to be at my sister’s wedding, which is another reason I wouldn’t want to have to go.   I know my station in life: just slightly removed from the trailer park.  My hair designer is whoever is currently working at whichever Great Clips I have the coupon for, my colorist is Nice and Easy #124, and my clothing is provided by a combination of discount sources- including the discount rack at Target, Goodwill, garage sales, and the clearance items I find at various discount clothing sites online.

I can’t say that I am necessarily jealous of the high-faluting set, other than they generally don’t have to worry about whether they can afford both food and scripts.  I’m not a terribly social person anyway.

Even so, (back to the stop and gawk mentality…) It was interesting to see some of the guests.  I think the most outrageous hat of the day prize has to go to Princess Beatrice.

I don’t think I’ve seen anything that outrageous even on the black church ladies.  For good or ill, it got her noticed, which I think is the whole point of the hat thing. Women with funky hats do get noticed.

I thought it a bit strange that Elton John and his significant other were invited, but Elton is a good friend of the Queen, so I guess that was sort of a logical invite.  I am glad to see Elton was dressed as a man and not in a dress or a Donald Duck costume or something.  It would have been a lot more fun to watch, though.

People are always watching to see if people will fall, or knock things over, or puke or do something else embarrassing at high-faluting, high profile occasions like this.  I’m sure people were watching to see if the wind would blow up ladies’ skirts, or if the little kids would fight, or someone would fall, etc. and so on.   I’m sure photographers would kill for a shot of some high profile socialite or even one of the royals picking their nose, picking their crotch, falling, making nasty faces, breaking a heel, the list goes on.  There are entire TV shows based up on unknown people doing stupid things (Most Daring, Smoking Gun Presents, etc.) so it’s even more priceless to the viewers when someone important screws up.  I have to admit I enjoy the crap out of that kind of stuff even though I probably shouldn’t.  But who’s not going to laugh about some skater nutting himself while trying to jump rails, or some idiot falling through a drop ceiling in the midst of committing a robbery?

Maybe part of the reason why we watch things like royal weddings or Presidential funerals or other high pomp and circumstance events is not because we necessarily enjoy them, but because our own lives are rather colorless and boring by comparison.  Nobody cares about some obscure, aging, cougar who sells automotive parts in the heart of fly-over country. When Ronald Reagan died, he had a 21 gun salute and a pretty impressive send off.  When I die, Steve-o will get my ashes from the crematory, and like as not he will store them in an old Folger’s can that he will later mistake for an ashtray. Granted, Reagan had a lot more useful life than I could ever have, so he deserved a good send off.

Maybe we watch such things to simply gawk at the strange clothes.

However, we can see a lot stranger clothing without ever having to leave the States.

And even better:

Royals vs. Rednecks, Nuptial Nuttiness, and My View from the Ivory Tower (heh-heh)

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There are important differences to note between the British Royal Family and American rednecks.  I shouldn’t bad mouth British royals too harshly, as I may be distantly related to them, which is kind of a scary thought.  I did get somewhat lucky though.  Despite having a lot of English ancestry, (there’s a good number of Scots in my pedigree too) somehow, out of all my family, without extreme surgical intervention, I have nice teeth.   The rest of them have been cursed with varying degrees of defective and horribly malformed dentition, and they get it honestly.   So I should be tactful, at least.  While British royals and American rednecks share a (somewhat) common language, and a certain degree of inbreeding, the similarities stop there. 

Usually, male British royals are fortunate enough to find women who are significantly smaller than feeder hogs.  The men are also significantly larger than Chihuahuas also, thus for the British royal couple as opposed to the American redneck couple, the sexual dimorphism  is exactly reversed.  British royal men are significantly larger than the women.   Unlike most mammals, redneck females tend to outsize their male counterparts by a ratio of three to one- as in a 300# woman will usually be found sporting a 100# man.  In some ways it’s kind of funny to watch. 

I had a (female) friend in high school who was 6’2″ and 320#.  Her boyfriend was probably 5’6″ and 110# soaking wet.  Both of them were uglier than sin to boot. She looked sort of like Hulk Hogan in drag.  He looked like a very freckled version of Raggedy Andy, complete with unruly, bright red hair.   She definitely wore the pants in that relationship.  I remember going to visit her one day and as I was getting out of my car, to my surprise, I saw her scrawny little bird of a man flying through the screen door, head first.  Apparently he had drank the last of her beer and smoked the last of her smokes (and she was a three pack a day smoker- Marlboro Menthols, smoked one after the other, down to the filters.  I did the same thing-only with Marlboro Reds, back then.)  She had requested him to go to the drive-thru to replenish her beer and smokes supply.  He said, “no,”  so she took him by the collar and the belt loops and tossed him out the (closed) screen door, whilst informing him (in a not very polite manner) that he will go get beer and smokes, and he’d better hop to. 

Thankfully the two of them never got married.  They shacked up for a couple of years, but he left when he found out that neither one of the twins were his.

Whenever the royals get married it is a Big Deal.  Since they are Britain’s answer to Hollywood, it sort of stands to reason.  Rednecks generally have little or no money and even when they do they spend it in horribly bad taste. This is why rednecks generally prefer to gawk at the Hollywood set.  It’s a lot more pleasant visual than looking in the mirror.   The royals, like Hollywood stars, have money, so it’s no big deal for them to put on a Big Show and to do it right, without a woman having to resort to buying her wedding gown on the discount rack at Wal Mart and putting the neighbor’s Shih-Tzu in a dress and making her the maid of honor because none of her friends can afford to be bridesmaids.  I’ve been railroaded into that mess– thanks to my sadistic oldest sister who doesn’t understand I’m poor- and I wouldn’t wish it on any woman, especially one who (like me) just happened to be going through a divorce at the time.  However, I’m sure that the bridesmaids in a royal wedding a.) don’t have to buy their own dresses, and b.) could easily afford it even if they did have to buy their own dresses. 

Redneck weddings, while tacky, are a lot more fun than the formal gatherings (like my sister’s wedding with the high faluting reception, the $7000 wedding gown- thank God she paid for that monstrosity- and the $300 bridesmaid dresses we had to somehow pay for) of the more civilized.  Where else would it be “normal” for the bride to be at least in the late second trimester of pregnancy, a Twinkie be considered a reasonable facsimile for wedding cake, a Rebel flag a suitable decoration, and Wal Mart $3.00 shower shoes deemed to be acceptable footwear?

The rifles on the cake are a nice touch too.

I have to admit that I am probably the last person to seek for advice on  “How to Have a Happy Marriage.”   I could offer advice on “How to Abide a High Maintenance Spouse Without Throttling Him or Going Insane,” but this is an ongoing endeavor that I’m still working on.  Anyone who thinks the whole marriage thing is easy apparently is not married to a man with the mental and emotional maturity of a toddler. 

I think it’s funny how much Americans get into the royal family business.   Perhaps it may go back to sharing a language, some common history, and for some people, common ancestry with the British.  It’s still funny to watch. 

There is a certain irony that in the US, our inbred minions are generally confined to West Virginia and other remote parts of Appalachia.  In the UK, they’re royalty. 

I probably won’t be watching the royal wedding tomorrow.  I stopped believing in fairy tales many years ago. 

I am glad that at least for my second wedding (the advantage of not informing Mom) we dispensed with the formalities and just went to the court house.  It was a lot less traumatic and a lot less expensive, and did not involve railroading any friends or family members into buying clothing they will never wear again,  paying for road trips they can’t afford, or thrusting anyone into an awkward and painful emotional situation.

I simply don’t get the whole Bridezilla mentality, especially today when a good number of marriages either end in divorce or the couple ends up being glorified roommates.  I see the reality of one year, five years, ten years later, and I just can’t get into the celebratory mood. 

At least funerals (while equally awkward and just as unpleasant to attend as a high brow wedding) have a finality to them.  Nobody really has to think too much about the deceased once the funeral is over.  They’re done with dealing with bullshit, and they’ve already made the decisions (for good or ill) that decide their place in eternity.  When you’re dead, you’re done.   Game over. Funerals are simply occasions to comfort the living.  Weddings are occasions to say to one’s self, “They have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into,”  and to make a mental wager on how long the marriage will last.  The suffering has only just begun.

I got the snotty guy, but he didn’t come with any money.  Damn.

You Might Turn Blue and Die (or Not,) Pharmaceutical Fun, and Science?

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Today’s science is tomorrow’s quackery.  Case in point- the “medicated” cigarettes shown above are in a museum.  I don’t know of any Dr. who would recommend smoking anything for the “temporary relief of the paroxysms of asthma.”  I don’t know of any Dr.s who would use the word “paroxysm,” even though it’s a pretty cool word.  Here’s the definition according to Merriam-Webster:

paroxysm: (n)
1: a fit, attack, or sudden increase or recurrence of symptoms (as of a disease) : convulsion <a paroxysm of coughing>
2: a sudden violent emotion or action : outburst <a paroxysm of rage>
 
In my world, synonyms for “fit” are always welcomed, if for no other reason than to keep me from sounding as if I am repeating myself incessantly.
 
If I do no other service in this world, I can only hope to expand someone’s vocabulary.
 
I would love to find a pic of it, but there was an old patent medicine featured on the Science Channel program, Oddities, that was supposed to contain strychnine and testicles- and 18% alcohol, ostensibly to help one forget that he was not only drinking powdered gonads, but was also poisoning himself.  100 years ago, the testicle tonic would be considered modern pharmacopoeia.  Today it would be considered just plain gross and poisonous, but science, like history, has to be taken in context.  100 years ago, cocaine was believed to be therapeutic.  How any of our ancestors lived long enough to procreate is beyond me.
 
I’m sure that some of the pharmaceuticals we use today will be eliminated or phased out due to side effects.  I just read today that benzocaine- a topical anesthetic found in Blistex and cough drops- can make you turn blue and die if you OD on it.  Apparently if you OD on this stuff you can get methemoglobinemia  ,which sounds like a really scary condition in which you turn blue because you can’t get enough oxygen in your blood, so you die.   I wonder if it’s in Carmex, because that’s generally my cracked-lip remedy of choice.  I would hate to begin my trip to the Great Beyond by OD ing on Carmex.
How many of us remember the old style mercury thermometers- or playing with liquid mercury in science class?  Now mercury is considered hazmat.  Apparently you can touch it and die or something. That would have been handy information back in 1980-whatever when we were farking around with the stuff.   Then again, apparently kids who fail to wear a helmet while riding a bike, pedaling a Big Wheel, swimming or (let’s hope the really paranoid people out there don’t jump on this bandwagon) eating a cheese sandwich, risk grievous head injury should they fall and skin a knee. 
 
No wonder kids are fat, if they have to suit up for a moonwalk just to go out and get some bloody exercise.  We got plenty of exercise back in the Dark Ages, and it was bloody at times, but scars add character.  I must have a lot of character as I have plenty of scars from cuts, scrapes, burns, falls, etc.  Even as uncoordinated as I am, I usually managed not to bang my head on stuff.  My arms and legs, not so lucky- but I have managed to go 42 years and still have all my fingers and toes, which given my complete lack of physical prowess- and complete lack of protective battle gear to play in as a child- is pretty impressive.
I can see some advantages in this kind of protective play gear had it been available to me as a child.  I probably would not have gotten nearly as much sunburn.  I also probably wouldn’t have felt as much pain as I was getting my ass kicked either.  However, I do see some distinct potential for dehydration and hyperthermia (overheating) if one were to wear this on a hot day.
 
I think part of the paranoia surrounding one’s offspring comes in part from the fact that people don’t have as many kids.  When you have three or four kids they might seem a bit more expendable than when you only have one.  People also have to spend a lot more money on kids today, so children just playing like normal kids jeopardize your investment . The calamity factor- and the potential for catastrophic expense- rises exponentially when they go out and do stupid and reckless things. 
 
I know the incident when the POMC had to get crowns and multiple root canals after some “buddies” of his sabotaged his bike (something about 160# of fourteen year old boy hitting the pavement mouth first is really not good for his dental health) cost me over three thousand dollars- and that was after the insurance paid. I couldn’t leave him to go through life with a Billy Bob mouth- and the crowns are lovely- but now I see why some mothers strap a helmet on their offspring at birth and don’t remove it until the child is potty trained, literate and no longer on a parental health insurance policy.  The bad thing about that particular incident is that he would have needed a mouth guard to mitigate this injury.
 
Even if he had been wearing a helmet (which I seriously doubt, knowing him) it wouldn’t have done jack to protect his mouth unless he would have had one of those full face motorcycle helmets. I can only imagine the mocking he would have gotten from his posse for wearing a full face motorcycle helmet to ride a BMX bike.

I wonder if it would do me any good to start wearing a helmet now?  Probably not.

Then again, science has advanced from the days of patent medicines with really gross stuff in them, at least I hope.

Pile is an old time euphemism for hemorrhoid. Another fun fact to share with friends and family, best reserved for conversation over the dinner table,at least if you’re looking for shock value.  I have to wonder if the “active ingredient” in the A.J.P. Pile Cure is kerosene.  It wouldn’t surprise me.   If it’s burnin’ it’s workin’!

’80’s Nostalgia, Humor in Suffering, and Things I Never Thought I’d See in a Museum

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I thought it was weird when I saw the 1981 Reagan Limousine on display four years ago.  It was on display when I took Steve-o and his woman du jour to the Henry Ford Museum, lined up along with the Kennedy Assassination Limo and a string of other Presidential limos dating back to Roosevelt.  I need to make it a point to take a trip up there again soon, even though I absolutely hate the crappy roads in Detroit, and the Dearborn area is rather frightening even in the daytime.

Granted, this is a historical car- and technically it does belong in a museum- but the fact that the props (ok, artifacts) from events I remember as if they were yesterday are in museums is a bit disquieting.  As far as I’m concerned (yes, I know he died in 2004) Reagan should still be President, riding around in that limo.  I bet Reagan is spinning in his grave at the antics of his successors (Bill Clinton was bad enough- and a tomcat- but even though as far as anyone knows, he keeps his pants on, Obama is far worse) and that’s sad.   We could really use someone like Reagan today.  To quote a bumper sticker that I would put on the HK Yaris if I had enough room:

In the 80’s we had Bob Hope, Johnny Cash and President Reagan. Today we have No Hope, No Cash and President Obama.

I also like this one:

Put the Constitution on His Teleprompter!

I’m sure Obama could use some fresh new reading. 

The statement comparing the 80’s to today almost makes me depressed.  It makes me want to vote for Donald Trump, even though he’s no Reagan.  I like him better than the same old tired milquetoasts that have been dominating the Republican mainstream the past few years. Mitt Romney and Mike Huckabee are just plain too lame.  Like him, or hate him, The Donald has balls.  We need a President with balls. Obama has none.  I believe if he’s not directly in cahoots with terrorist nations and organizations, he’s not doing anything to stop them or even mitigate their actions.  He’s complicit with Black genocide in supporting abortion “rights” that are NOT the state’s to give and are clearly morally wrong.  Reagan was the last one who had the courage to call evil what it is and to do what was right even when it wasn’t popular.  I don’t know if Trump is in that league, but I think he is more aware of the right course for this country, at least in regard to economics and foreign policy, than Obama ever could be.  

The sad thing is back in the 90’s I didn’t think it could get any worse than Bill Clinton.  I was absolutely shocked at the dress-stain incident even though Clinton’s foreign policy (or the lack thereof) was even more devastating to the country than the shame he brought to the Oval Office.   Even so, if someone were to compare Clinton vs. Obama, I hate to say it, but I would take Bill Clinton in a heartbeat (which is disturbing clear down to my conservative Republican soul.)  If there is worse than Obama, and given human nature there is (even though we have not seen it in an American President, and I hope we never do) but- humanity gave us Stalin, Mao and Hitler after all.  I hope people aren’t dumb enough to vote for him/her.

One thing I also noted on our trip to the Henry Ford Museum was an exhibit on 80’s ephemera in which there was a Marlboro Lights 100’s pack, (now I don’t see that as historically worthy, but I smoked my share back then, so maybe so) and a collection of old vinyl records to die for by- Boston, Foreigner, The Police, Iron Maiden, Journey, and many other good ones.  The album art was so much better back then.  Someone actually had to draw them instead of just getting into some computer program and playing with it to make some funky design.   I still say the Journey Departure cover is one of the best:

We thought Defender was a “futuristic” video game.  Then again, we actually took quarters and went to the arcade to play video games and pinball. 

I still think it would be a much better world if Reagan were in the White House, and Neal Schon still had his fro.

Makes me wish it were 1981 again…only not as a geeky 12 year old who got beat up every day.  If it were 1981 and I knew what I do now it would be interesting.  I could have a lot of fun with that.

Speaking of Journey, I decided to go ahead and get my ticket for the show on August 5, even though it is at Crew Stadium (outside.)  I don’t generally like to go to outside shows because of the lack of A/C, but it starts at 7PM, so at least it’s not in the heat of the day.  Journey only makes it to Columbus every couple of years or so, and they aren’t getting any younger.  Neal Schon is pushing 60, Jonathan and Ross are over 60, and Arnel and Deen are both over 40, and given the lifespans of rock musicians, that’s not a comforting thought.  I should take any opportunity to see them that I can get. Foreigner and Night Ranger (also very good bands live) are opening for them, so this is a show worth having to contend with stygian heat and/or the prospect of torrential rain. The nice thing about this show is that it will be an older crowd.  Usually the over 40 set is not into throwing things, fighting or stealing stuff- and it’s reserved seats- so barring weather extremes, it should be a pleasant evening. 

Jerry has been on yet another trip on the self-pity express.  I don’t feel sorry for him.  He brings his own misery upon himself.  I do try to find the humor in it, otherwise I’d have to throttle him. 

Last night he decided to go to the hell hole again.  He staggered in around 10PM which was nice.  I had a quiet evening until he came home.  The best thing for me to do is to pretend I’m asleep.  He knows better than to try to wake me up- even when he’s shitfaced, usually- because I am rather nasty when I’m disturbed late at night.  If he sees that I’m awake he will torment me, and I’ll never get to bed, but if I stay under the radar he will usually prattle on to the walls (or Isabel if she is in view) about various unintelligible nonsense for an hour or so until he passes out.  I got lucky last night.  He was sprawled across the bed, pants down, snoring and near comatose before 11. 

Jerry has had many shitfaced conversations with poor Isabel.  According to him, she’s the only one who understands him when he’s shitfaced.  I never knew that cats could understand the ramblings of the insanely drunk. 

I should put a collar on Isabel with a speaker in it.  When Jerry’s shitfaced and talks to her, I could have her reply through her collar speaker.  It would be a hoot.

Jerry: “Whaats aff? Gotta pith…”  (falling over something)

Isabel: “Go to bed, shit head!”

Jerry: “Where’s foooooooooood?”

Isabel: “Shut up, or it’s gonna be up your ass.” 

That could be funny.  Isabel can out run him, and she always has the option of disappearing down the cat hole (there’s a cat-sized hole in the basement door for cat access so they can use the litter box, but the dogs can’t get to the litter box and use it as a snack bar) when she’s had enough of his “conversation.”

Funky Food, Shutting Up Is Hard to Do, and Some Cheese for That Whine?

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This sign is from the frozen custard shop across the street.  Frozen custard is somewhat like ice cream or frozen yogurt only a bit thicker.  I have not ventured to try the chicken salad boat.   The sign simply struck me funny for two reasons- one, that it would have been a lot funnier had they been extolling the wonders of a tuna salad boat, (I simply adore double entendre as a form of humor,) and that chocolate covered strawberry anything does not generally go well with meat salads.  The chocolate covered strawberry frozen custard is good, but not necessarily with a chicken salad boat.

I am not a huge fan of meat salads, as most of the time they are usually made with vast quantities of mayonnaise.  I am not a picky eater for the most part, but there’s something about mayonnaise that gags me.  When I make tuna salad for my own consumption there is usually more mustard in it than mayonnaise, and the only mayonnaise I use is the low fat Miracle Whip, which doesn’t taste so much like congealed lard.

One fun food I have actually tried- and like- is spaghetti tacos.  Spaghetti in a taco shell, while messy, is quite tasty.

That makes me hungry just looking at it.

Jerry has been on a roll this weekend, and not in a good way.  I shouldn’t have indulged him.  I felt guilty about avoiding driving him around on his little forays into garage sale land the past couple of Saturdays, so I got up early, (forgoing my much anticipated Saturday nap,) fixed him breakfast, and took him out for six hours of delightful incessant bitching as we were trolling for garage sales in the wind and rain.  The only bright spot in that for him was that he did finally find a lawn mower, though it’s not quite what he wants.  I did find a nice long black sweater which I had been looking for but hadn’t been able to find in my size and/or price range.

But there’s only so much whining even I can take.  I know I’m in trouble when I just plain tune him out as he prattles on and on about how he doesn’t like his shoes (his own damned fault for buying those cheap ass velcro sneakers from Wal Mart) and I don’t do _________the right way or I do too much___________ or not enough_________ .  I’ve already tuned out all of his commentary on my driving.  That’s automatic, otherwise I would have to reach over and throttle him good.   I have driven many more thousands of miles than he has in my lifetime, AND, I wasn’t the one who got completely shit faced at the hell hole the previous evening.  I didn’t wake up forty proof.  If he had chosen to drive yesterday morning, he could have still got popped for DUI.   It would have been a miracle to find blood in his alcohol stream. As the sober one,  as far as I’m concerned, if I’m driving, I have the express privilege of ignoring all the drunken whiner’s comments.

I will say about the cheapo Wal Mart shoes, that he gets what he deserves for refusing to wear the good New Balance shoes I bought him.  At least I was able to send the New Balance shoes back and recoup my $70.  He can do a Howard Hughes and wear Kleenex boxes on his feet for all I care if he wants to be that way.

Jerry has continued his whiny diatribe into today.  I should have known better than to waste my time fixing him breakfast (again.)

“But I don’t want hash and fried potatoes…”  He wanted to say it, but I think some little glitter of intelligence way back in the reptilian part of his brain warned him that if he did, I would smack him into next Tuesday.  He didn’t need to say it.  He just ate a couple of bites-reminiscent of Pee Wee Herman eating breakfast cereal (Mr. T Cereal, to be exact)  in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, then gave the rest of it to the dogs.  I’m sure he laid some kind of sob story on his Mom to end up coming home from her house with a big bowl of pinto beans and cornbread.  Fine.  If she feeds him, I don’t have to listen to him whine about the food.  The irony is that his Mom could give him dog food and he’d like it, and I could give him shrimp and steak and he would bitch about it.  More fun with yet another POMC.  I hope I’ve done a better job with mine.  At least Steve-o knows better than to pull the whiny shit with me.

Now he is engaged in the Dandelion War again- running around with the pesticide sprayer in thirty mile an hour winds like some deranged mental case thinking he’s going to make the yard look better than the insurance agency next door- never mind that they can afford to hire a team of Mexican landscapers to do their yard work.

All that hard work so the freakazoids from the Drunk and Domestics can use the yard as their personal disposal for their cig packs, food wrappers, drinky cups and, yes, trucker bombs.

At least if he’s outside I can’t hear him whine.

If Jerry whines in the forest and nobody hears him, is he still whining?

I would say yes.  If he’s breathing and conscious, he’s whining.

I have some Colby cheese in the fridge for him but a.) he might have to look behind something, guaranteeing he won’t find it, or b.) he won’t want Colby cheese, or he might refuse to eat the store brand.


Clara is not amused.  Clara has no problem eating store brand cheese.

When Is Panic the Appropriate Response?, Views of the Macabre, and Wake-Up Songs

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Perhaps as a person who has dealt with PTSD, major depression, and panic attacks, it would be helpful for me to know when panic is the appropriate response.  I have been known to vascillate from near catatonia and total apathy to going postal over a popcorn fart.  One thing that I have noticed after being on Prozac for the past six years, is that my reactions seem to be a lot more “middle of the road.”  I don’t freak out easily and for no apparent reason like I used to when I had panic attacks on a regular basis, but I don’t go into total apathy mode either.  I do notice and still care about all the things that are screwed up in my particular dystopia, but not to the point of losing sleep or climbing the walls.  This is a good thing, I think, unless I should be freaking out and just don’t realize it.

Jerry freaks out about the grass.  I don’t know if all middle-aged to elderly men have a thing about having a perfect lawn and freaking out if you don’t, but Jerry sure as hell has a lawn fetish.   He always thinks the grass needs mowed, especially if he can see any dandelions.  Personally, I like dandelions.  They are nature’s way of giving lawn freaks like Jerry the finger.  There are limits to what you can do with grass.  Our lawn is not a golf course.  There’s a bus stop in front of our house, so a lot of the time, as they wait on the bus, the freakazoids from the drunk and domestic apartments behind the body shop are tossing their cig packs, drinkie cups and various other detritus in the front yard.  I swear I picked up- with the shovel- a trucker bomb in the front yard the other day.  So as long as the height of the plant life in the front yard is compliant with city ordinances, I wouldn’t be too paranoid about it.  The back yard is the dogs’ shitter.  Do they care if they shit in dandelions?  Probably not.  George Carlin once asked (in reference to cats, but same principle) how many gourmets lick their asses.  How many dogs really care about the quality of the greenery they’re dropping a deuce in?

Thankfully, yesterday, when he finally moved out of Tipsy McNumbnuts mode, Jerry decided to call his half-brother Ray Earl (oh, the joy of redneck names!) who repairs lawn mowers, to see if he would take a look at the one he trashed.  In the meanwhile, he managed to start one of the beat up old mowers he buys at yard sales to sell on Craig’s List, and he did quite fine last night mowing the grass with it.   Since he was sober and acting like he actually had half a brain for once, I decided to be nice and pick up all the visible dog shit in the back yard for him.  That was partially for my own benefit, because he always seems to either step in it (and then, of course, he will traipse it through the house so I get to clean it up off his shoes and the floors) or it gets mulched in the mower, so you step out the door and it smells like shit.  Neither alternative is pleasant, but  I was overjoyed to be spared a field trip through the seventh circle of hell with him in Sears or Home Depot.  Scooping up shit is not nearly as bad as following Jerry around in Home Depot.

I am not much of a shopper, especially for a woman.  I dislike crowds, and generally avoid stores altogether if I can buy what I want online.  But home improvement stores are Jerry’s equivalent of DSW (Designer Shoe Warehouse- one of the hugest shoe stores in the Midwest-with locations all over beautiful Central Ohio.)  Jerry can spend hours looking at building supplies and tools and chain saws and trimmers and mowers and all the various crud available at home improvement stores for hours on end.  I find gawking at that stuff insanely boring unless I need a particular item to do a particular job, then I get what I need and get out.  It usually smells like fertilizer or paint in those places, and I really don’t want to linger. I don’t think I could spend as long in DSW as Jerry spends on his forays to Home Depot.   Ideally he would go to the home improvement store with Bob- they both know what they are after, they both like to gawk at things like varnish and caulk, and I don’t have a freaking clue.

I do try not to be one of those old geezers who bitch about really stupid things.  I don’t want to end up like the old bitty that lived across from Mom and Dad who complained about kids “stealing her snow.”  She was dead for four months before anyone realized it.  Her kids never bothered to visit her, and everyone who lived in the neighborhood avoided her because she was constantly calling the cops on everyone.  I don’t want to become so petty that I end up calling the cops over dogs barking or loud exhausts.  Usually I only bother law enforcement if there’s something dangerous going on, like people shooting off shotguns, or there’s a drunk guy passed out in the drunk and domestic apartments’ parking lot when it’s 20 degrees out, and he’ll freeze to death if nobody retrieves him.

I figure cops have better things to do than to hassle people about dogs barking or to give the young punks fits about the ass-nasty rap music they like to blare through their sub-woofers.  I’m not saying I like it when people let their dogs bark incessantly or when anyone plays rap music, but I’m sure I do things to annoy people too.   

Jerry got an interesting piece of junk mail yesterday- from a cemetery up in Lewis Center (a small town about 25 miles out) extolling the beauty (and quoting pricing and payment plans) of having your very own pre-paid grave plot! 

I hate to say it but I find such a thing a bit macabre.  It’s one thing to realize you eventually might need one, and go trolling for grave plots on your own, but it seems just a bit morbid for a cemetery to be sending out flyers with the ValPak coupons. 

I am planning on being cremated if for no other reasons than to save money and space.  I should consider buying my urn ahead of time. 

If I leave it up to Steve-o I’ll end up spending eternity either flushed down the toilet, or in an old Folger’s can that Steve-o will eventually mistake for an ashtray.

I am going to have to compile my CD of  “Songs to Wake Jerry Up” for use when he’s hungover because he was partying like a rockstar the night before.

Here’s a preliminary list:

“Stars and Stripes Forever” – John Philip Sousa (this is a wake-up classic!)

Ren and Stimpy’s “Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy” song

“Shiny Happy People”- REM (it can be a just plain annoying song)

“Dixie Highway”- Journey

“Rock and Roll”- Led Zeppelin

“Crazy Train”- Black Sabbath

“Bastille Day”- Rush

“Smells Like Teen Spirit”- Nirvana

“For Whom the Bell Tolls”- Metallica

I could have fun with this collection.  I will have to troll my MP3 collection tonight and see what I can find. 

Something tells me I really don’t want to know.  After Steve-o did the 7/8″ earrings in his earlobes, I didn’t have the courage to ask him what else he has pierced.  Some things are TMI, even for me.

How Not to Get My Attention, aka: (Drunken) Aggressive-Aggressive Revenge

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Ok, so I will remove the kid gloves and vent like I mean it.  And I do. 

Last night I had to take the HK Yaris over to the local Toyota dealer for a minor warranty issue.  The right headlight was getting some condensation between the layers of plastic in the lens and housing- a common concern here in Central Ohio Swampland, especially evident during Monsoon season.  I saw more than enough of these when I worked in dealerships, so when I saw the condensation building up in that lamp I figured I’d best address it right away, since it is a warranty issue.  It’s hard for any vehicle manufacturer to construct a lamp assembly of any type that can remain water-tight in a place that gets the rainfall we do here.  It wasn’t a major deal, but that’s one of the reasons why cars have warranties.  While their techie is milking the gravy train (.7 of an hour to R&R a headlight assembly isn’t bad, when an experienced tech can do it in 5-10 minutes, or about .2 hours) changing out my headlight, I sat and chilled out and played a few solitaire games on the DS. 

Hanging out in the waiting room (or “customer lounge” as they call it) was tolerable except for the TV was on the same lame-ass news loop the whole time I was there, and there was some foreign dude who looked like he was from a terrorist harboring country yapping on his cell phone in some unintelligible gibberish.  I’m sure it was a real language, but I have no clue what it was.  German, French or Spanish, I know enough to get slapped- and can understand a word or phrase here and there.  This was some language I had no clue what it was but it reminded me of the noises cats make when they mate.  It might make sense to cats, who knows?

How do I know if he was giving his terrorist buddies the latitude and longitude of the Toyota dealer so they could bomb the place?  Or, he could have been doing what Steve-o does when he converses with his German-speaking friends- mocking those around him.  I can picture that pretty easily.

“Dude, there is this old cougar, who looks sort of like a weird, ill-proportioned troll, sitting over here playing solitaire on a DS.  Man, this is lame!”

I continue to play solitaire and say to myself this guy is harmless and he’s just mocking me to his buddy over in where ever it is that they speak the cat mating language.  So I get my headlight changed out, free of terrorist incidents, to my relief, and I go home.

I knew I was in for an evening from hell when I came home and the dogs were in their crates.  That could only mean one thing- Jerry’s at the hell hole…after swearing up and down he wouldn’t renew his membership there, but of course, he did.  Nice. Not unexpected, though.  I was born at night, but not last night.  I knew he was lying out his ass when he said he was not going to renew.

Not more than three minutes after I get in the door, Tipsy McNumbnuts staggers in.  He insists that he has to mow the grass tonight.  At the same time he is insisting that he is going to need a new lawn mower because the old one probably won’t start.  I should have known at that point to do anything to keep him away from anything involving gasoline, machinery or sharp things.  Then he goes on and on how he needs me to help him mow the grass.

Excuse me?  How in the hell I am I supposed to “help” you mow the grass?  That’s the one thing I’m not doing.  If you want me to mow grass, then consider doing your own laundry, cooking your own meals, getting your own scripts, putting your own crap on E-bay, (wiping your own ass…) the list goes on and on. 

Apparently what he wanted me to do was follow him around while he mowed the grass.  I have absolutely no idea why.

I think he wanted a new lawn mower (and there wasn’t a thing wrong with the old one, until he trashed it.)  But I think he wanted to get my attention, get a new lawn mower,  AND be able to somehow blame me for the old one’s demise.

I stayed outside long enough for him to start the mower up- and it fired up and ran beautifully.  I figured my work outside was done, so I could go in and at least attempt to fix something for dinner.  Yeah.

About five minutes later he comes storming in the back door screaming that I broke the lawn mower.  Granted, he was pretty damned drunk, but I couldn’t see how I could have broke the mower if I was in the kitchen washing dishes. 

Apparently, because I wasn’t watching him, (???) he ran over the metal rod that has been in the yard forever and ever, that he knows about, and jammed the motor completely.  It is officially FUBARed.  Now, I am the first one to accept blame where it is due, but it seems to me that the drunken operator of the mower might have had a lot more to do with its final catastrophic failure.  I will also add that this is a self-propelled push mower, not a rider mower.  Ohio is so weird about DUI that the cops can bust you for drunken mowing– if you’re on a rider mower.  They can bust you on a motorized bar stool too.  This actually happened to some redneck in Newark.  So technically (as far as I know,) drunken mowing is legal- as long as it’s a push mower, and you’re not driving it.

Ingenious, yes, but still motorized, and you do ride it. 

If there is some sort of ordinance against drunken mowing with a push mower, I’d like to know about it for future reference.

Tonight I get to go with Cap’n Happy to procure another lawn mower- at his expense of course.  If he thinks I’m buying him a new lawn mower to reward his wanton trashing of a perfectly good one, he has another thing coming.  If I were to buy him a mower, which I won’t, I would buy him one of these little beauties:

I don’t see how he could destroy this one unless he ran over it with the truck or something.  I am not looking forward to clomping through Sears, Lowes or wherever he decides to go trolling for deals on mowers.  Not at all.

This little foray into home improvement hell with the biggest drama queen on the planet ought to be as much fun as a dental cleaning, a pelvic exam, and a full body wax- all at once.

I might buy him dinner if he behaves– at White Castle.  Mmmm, sliders….

Activities for Introverts, Strange Phrases, Aging as it Relates to Discretion

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There’s nothing like the Nintendo DS (I have the “lite” version, not the funky 3D one- and I’d love to get the Hello Kitty skin, but I do have the full HK case, so why do that?) for geeks.  You don’t have to be a geek to appreciate the DS, but I am a big fan of word games and various solitaires, and as far as hand-held games are, it’s probably the best one for that.  I bought a DS so I would have something to occupy myself with when I was recovering from my hysterectomy.  It was well worth it.  The 3D version, which just came out last month, would be cool for action games- but I generally don’t play action games.  The only action games I have are “Jackass” and “Sims”. I haven’t gotten past the first level on Jackass, and I haven’t played with the “Sims” game much yet.  Most of the time I’m either playing Scrabble or Freecell (or Tuxedo or Sea Towers, on the Solitaire Overload package) or Bookworm, or the Crosswords DS game. 

This is gaming excitement for this old cougar.  Gratuitous use of the DS also keeps me from throttling people when I am forced to wait.  It’s that whole Type A personality mentality that doesn’t like to waste time- unless of course I’m occupying my mind with something else.  Waiting in the Dr.’s office, or waiting for car repair, or anything else I have to wait on gets my nervous tizziness going on, and it doesn’t help that most public waiting areas subject you to either 1. bad pop music, 2. CNN or other depressing,  extreme left-wing biased “news” broadcasts that insist Obama is the greatest President since Lincoln (gag), or 3. Oprah/Jerry Springer/Montel/Judge Whoever, etc.,  which is enough to make me want to hurl.  If I’m playing a game I’m at least a bit distracted from being irritated and kept from excessive clock-watching.  I do have Scrabble on my phone, but the DS version is a lot easier to maneuver. 

If I do have to watch one of those made for TV hokey small-claims court programs, why not bring back the People’s Court with Judge Wapner?  Unless of course, Judge Wapner is dead.  As of today, or the latest info I can find, Judge Wapner is still alive, but he’s 91, so he’s probably not much for making a comeback into the courtroom.   I like to watch the exciting courtroom stuff like they show on TruTV, where the victim’s entire family beats the hell out of a murderer in the courtroom or something cool like that.  I just can’t get riled up about some jackoff leaving skid marks in someone’s grass, or someone wanting reimbursed for her pain and suffering over a crappy hair do, and other petty stuff like that.   If I’m going to be pissed off enough to take someone to court it better be worth my time and aggravation. 

I understand that 99% of the rest of the world is not wired like me at all, so I’m the one who has to adjust.  I can’t expect the rest of the world to cater to my preferences, unless of course I can pay for that privilege.  The ability to pay for solitude and to require others to come to me for necessary services could be a mixed blessing too.  Howard Hughes was able to pay for the amount of isolation and catering he wanted, and look how he ended up- emaciated, naked, hooked on drugs and over all a pathetic mess.  The reality is that many introverted people, if given enough money (and a bad enough case of OCD, which oddly, is one disorder common to introverted people that I have remained free of) could end up exactly like Howard Hughes.  Whether I like it or not, I have to interact with other humans face to face.  I am generally not paranoid about dirt or germs or weird stuff like that.  I’m just not terribly social unless it is on my terms, and with the very few people that I actually enjoy socializing with.   Most of the time I’d rather not talk to or interact with anyone, but there are things everyone has to do that they don’t always want to do. 

I like shoes too much to resort to wearing Kleenex boxes on my feet.

I’ve noticed the older I get the more I get like my Grandma (Mom’s mother, who died back in 1990 at the somewhat untimely age of 74) and my Great-Grandma (her mother, who died in 1992 at the age of 94.)  They were at least in appearances, classy old ladies.  They both knew how to dress.  When Grandma died she had over 500 pairs of shoes, all size 8 1/2 AAA.  Mom wears the same bizarre size, so she inherited a nice collection.  These weren’t cheap shoes either.  They were all quality, good leather shoes- brands like Florsheim, Hush Puppies, Connie, Reebok, and her personal favorite, Naturalizer.   I try to buy my shoes on clearance, because I am cheap, but I can’t abide cheap shoes.  I will spend money on shoes, but I will go to the thrift store and the Target clearance rack to buy clothes.   I buy along the same lines as Grandma did- well made leather shoes, only I need a 7B.  I didn’t inherit Mom and Grandma’s narrow feet.  Steve-o did though.  Very few dudes wear a size 13A.  His feet remind me of giant bird claws.  Creepy.

Anyway, Grandma was the type of person who spoke her mind even if it was politically incorrect or just downright embarrassing.  I will never forget the time I took Grandma and Great-Grandma to K-Mart together.  Neither of them ever learned to drive which I thought was a bit odd, but I didn’t mind taking them places. 

Grandma had worked as a lingerie buyer for a large department store for many years.  When I was 13 (and already a 36C) Grandma warned me how important it was for me to wear a good quality support bra, otherwise I would be looking like the native women on National Geographic before I turned 30.  Gravity has taken its toll (I’m 42 after all,) but the puppies would likely be a lot further south today had I gone braless like a lot of my friends used to do.   Grandma knew all the ins and outs of lingerie and fitting foundation garments.  She also knew the good stuff from the cheap stuff.

When we walked into K-Mart there was an absolutely horrible hot pink, red and black nightie type thing on the display mannequin.  There were bright red hands stitched to the chest area of the nightie thing, as if some ethereal form were copping a feel of the mannequin’s puppies.  Grandma simply had to comment.

“You’d have to be a whore to wear something like that!”

Then Great-Grandma (not to be out done) spotted one of the Behemoth Women Wearing Spandex which are unfortunately (pun intended) wide spread in the entire Central Ohio vicinity.  There’s a reason why K-Mart sells size 20 women’s underwear, which could also double as a front end cover for Jerry’s Tacoma.   Great-Grandma  had to comment on her shocking sight of the day too.

“Look at the big ass on that!”

Both of them were laughing- loudly- all the way through the store, and I have to admit I was too, because their observations were spot-on. 

I think as people age the “traffic cop” function of the frontal lobe of the brain gets a bit tired out.  We stop censoring everything and just say it like it is.  In some ways I think that can be a good thing.  I even see Mom doing this to some degree, which is shocking, because she has always been so straight laced and prudy.   When we were kids she thought “fart” was a cuss word, and we weren’t allowed to say “fart.”  We had to say, “passed gas,” “let a stinker,” or “went toot.”  Now she is a hard-core road rager.  She flips people off and calls them stupid assholes out the window, and worse. 

Maybe that’s why Grandma and Great-Grandma never drove.  Mom’s a terrible driver.  She has also been known to cuss out cops, which is not a very wise thing to do.  If ever there were a time for the frontal lobe of one’s brain to engage, it’s when talking to a cop.  I find the phrase, “Yes, sir, Officer,” to be a very appropriate one.  “F*** off and die,” is not a cop-friendly phrase.  Neither is,  “Don’t you have better things to do than to torment old bitties?”    I agree that sometimes cops do lie in wait for the occasional speeder, but the little old bitty doing 95 in a 25 (in a Ford LTD- granted it did have a 351 Windsor, but still,) is a hazard to the public.  She’s lucky to have only gotten a speeding ticket and not a conviction for reckless op.  That’s why Dad won’t let her have another V8.   I’ve been in the car with Mom.  I know how she drives.  I side with the cop.

I should get Mom this t-shirt.  Maybe it will help if she’s wearing it the next time she gets busted.