creative writing

my creative writing projects

Victorian Death and Post-Mortem Photography, and Reworking the Wiring

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I don’t know why, but I find post-mortem photography intriguing.  I know such a curiosity can be considered somewhat macabre- taking pictures of dead people is rather morbid and viewing them is even more so, but there is so much written in those pictures that is unsaid. 

Babies and children seem to be so over-represented in post-mortem pics, but the sad fact is that young children and infants routinely died of diseases that we either vaccinate against or that can be treated with antibiotics.  I’ve seen so many pics of bewildered looking mothers holding their dead babies for that final portrait.  It’s haunting even when one considers the high infant mortality rate of the time.  I’m sure the fact that it was a major accomplishment to get a child to live until his or her fifth birthday in those times did not make it any easier when infants died.

Today it is not as common to take pictures of dead people.  I took pics at Grandma’s funeral pretty much at Mom’s insistence (I will not post them) and more or less to remind myself why I do not want either the bad pink nightie treatment or an open casket funeral. Cremate my happy ass and put up a picture taken when I was still alive.  If anyone shows up, let them speculate on how nasty I looked at the hour of death or whether or not I looked better dead than alive.  Grandma, in spite of the funeral director’s art, did not “look good.”  Very few people do look good when they are laid out in a coffin getting ready to be sent off for the Big Sleep.  She died of either pancreatic cancer, liver failure, or congestive heart failure, or more likely, a combination of the effects of all three (she was 93, after all) and it was all the mortician could do to tone down the sick bright yellow glow of her skin.  They did a better job with Grandma than the funeral home who dolled up poor Aunt Ellen (I will never forget the Day-Glo orange lipstick,) but the restorative arts can only do so much.

I had to wonder about post-mortems where the dead dude (or chick) is standing.  The Victorians had a way around that too:

Sort of like a guitar stand for the dead.  This explains Keith Richards.  Screw the guitar, how about a stand to keep the guitarist vertical? Especially since he must be about 90 years old, and has probably been dead since 1980.

Now I know I am overworked and sleep deprived, but I like it like that.  I know better in a way, but today is the first day in a very long time that I actually came to work and wasn’t completely buried in more stuff than I can possibly get done.  Tomorrow will be different.  I should have asked to go home this PM since I really don’t have much to do, but the minute I do that, a.) I set a bad precedent for others, and b.) some sort of crisis will materialize that will turn into a full-blown cluster f— tomorrow.  Murphy’s Law is alive and well.

In all seriousness, I really do need to get a bit more balanced.  I have a really bad tendency to get focused on one thing and then I don’t really bother with anything else.  I’ve done that with overwork before and it wasn’t very good for my health.  Lately I’ve been living on Monsters and Subway and heavy metal which couldn’t be terribly good for a young kid, let alone a distressed old fossil such as me.  On the bright side, I am enjoying Metallica and Billy Squier and Queensryche and Led Zeppelin, so it can’t be all bad.

I’d like to get that EVO phone that Steve-o has been raving about that not only is Android-based, but has a camera in the front so you can have phone conversations and actually see who you’re talking to.  For the life of me I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would want to look at me on a phone screen, but to each his own.  I do want to be able to see my grandchild, which I think is the reason behind this logic.

The creepiest post-mortems are those where either the eyes are still open or the photographer paints them on later.  It’s pretty clear she’s dead, so what’s up with the open eyes and blank stare?

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays, but this year I really haven’t had time to do anything fun.  I haven’t really had time to do anything fun all summer either, and now that winter is pretty much here I have to wonder where the time has gone.  I did get some time in the cougar pool and a couple of good road trips, so I should be satisfied with that.  However, I don’t see myself getting all hyped up for Christmas and all that as much as I would like to enjoy the season this year. 

I need to slow down, take a moment to simply be, and to repair the wiring, but I don’t see it happening any time soon.

Too bad I had to take down the cougar pool.

The Lost Art of Redneck Cookery, Historical Excursions, and Inevitability

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It is fortunate that my grandmothers taught me how to cook. Since it is legend in my family that my Mom’s atrocious culinary offerings caused Suzie the Dachshund’s premature death, I’m glad my grandmothers were around.  In all fairness, Suzie wasn’t a particularly picky eater, even for a dog.  She was known to eat underwear, socks, rocks, her own poo, Barbie heads and assorted limbs, and pretty much anything else that would fit in her gaping maw.  So Mom’s cooking- I can still see the mashed potatoes with the big black burnt flakes and the accompanying “gravy” that was the texture, flavor, and consistency of partially hardened concrete- might have been a contributing factor or even the final tipping point, considering Suzie’s complete lack of discernment in her eating habits.   

I won’t say that I am the best cook there is by a long shot, but I can hold my own with most old-time redneck cuisine.  I can roll my own noodles, (no I do not “roll my own” anything else, except maybe pie crust) fry chicken, grill steaks, bake breads, pies, cakes and cookies, make soups and casseroles and roasts, etc.  Unfortunately these are skills that most young people see as being quaint and obsolete.  I could not be any more weird to the kids if I went out and shot deer, tanned the hides and made my own shoes .  My son and his friends consider microwaved ramen noodles, pizza delivery, and Taco Bell to be the apex of fine dining. 

The relevance of learning cooking skills  just doesn’t register with the POMC.  He worked at Taco Bell for two years and figured that was enough cooking for him.   He thought I was completely nuts to be boiling a chicken and rolling out noodle dough when you can get chicken-n-noodles all ready to be microwaved in less than five minutes, courtesy of Marie Callender. 

In my humble opinion- while some microwave meals aren’t half bad and I am not above eating them on occasion- when you do have the time and motivation to do the authentic slow food thing it tastes better.  My old time redneck cuisine isn’t all loaded down with salt and preservatives and heaven only knows what else either. 

Admittedly, most women of my generation (and most likely those younger than I) are about as clueless about home cooking as I am about football or other assorted man-sports.  My grandmothers’ generation was probably the last generation to consider cooking an essential skill. 

So here I am with my archaic skill sets- yes I can cook and bake, and do needlework for what it’s worth.  I enjoy down-home slow cooking when I have the time.  So there.  But it does disturb me that it’s a dying art.  It’s getting harder and harder to find things like shortening, cornstarch and various spices. Even worse, it’s getting harder and harder for me to find the time.

I am looking forward to Dad’s Birthday Cruise on Saturday.  It’s sort of disquieting for me to go since I’ve not had a classic air-cooled VW for years, but his buddies in the car club are cool and it’s always a good time.  I wouldn’t miss it barring extreme illness or Act of God, since it is also Dad’s birthday party, and an opportunity for me to get him an embarrassing gag gift.

We always go to one or two historical sites in Marion County.  This year we are going to the tiny village of LaRue to see a collection of Jim Thorpe memorabilia and then to check out another guy’s extensive collection of license plates.  Dad is always good at picking out interesting places to go.  I was sort of disappointed that we weren’t doing anything architecturally related this time, (I so enjoyed touring the Harding Home and Etowah a couple of years ago,) but it’s good to mix it up.  I might be surprised at what I get to see.

In a way it is almost painful to go home and revisit the past.  So much that I see in the history of those places points to a future that should have been better and brighter than today.  Unfortunately I was born into a place and time that was just on the cusp of catastrophic decline, and in a sickening sort of paradox, as I grew up, I watched it all fall and disintegrate and decay.

I know the reasons behind the fall, but hindsight is 20/20.  When one is confronted with the lingering shadow of what could have been, that which has become a spoiled, dusty, failed memory, and today’s more sordid reality, it can be disheartening. Sometimes when I drive past the decaying monoliths of a long-dead industry I see my own heart, my own spirit- something that belonged to the past and sort of exists, at least in form, but isn’t really there anymore.

I look at the idle, rusting frameworks and I see my own metaphor drawn out, speaking the unsaid, wrought in cold, dead steel.

Everywhere and nowhere, all points converge here.

I can find divers examples of proof for the devolution of humanity, believe that.  Just go to WalMart.

I don’t know what is more frightening- WalMart in the summer, or the stunning vision (or was that a sight) of fat, bald dudes in Speedos that we were treated to at Put-In-Bay.

The Birthday Cruise always ends at the Marion Cemetery, which I have not even come close to fully perusing despite emptying out my memory card and spending a Sunday afternoon last March taking pictures of almost everything that caught my interest. A 2GB card is not enough, especially if you want high res pics.

I’ve always thought this to be the saddest monument in the Marion Cemetery, poor six year old Wallie.  For being almost 150 years old, his monument has held up remarkably well.  Perhaps a grieving mother put this up years after Wallie’s unfortunate and premature passing, but it is consistent with the often maudlin Victorian traditions of memorializing the dead.  In those days death wasn’t just an Old Person Thing confined to hospitals and nursing homes, shrouded in wiring and tubes and technology and sanitized by distance and closed doors.  In 1864, when Wallie succumbed, death was a Living Room Thing, something that visited old and young alike, that was intimate and piercing and all consuming. 

Perhaps in society’s sanitization of death we have also depersonalized it and in the process have stripped ourselves of some of  our humanity.  We live with the false assumption that we have forever. 

Granted, medical science has come a long way in postponing death.  I would have likely been worm food thirty-odd years ago if not for antibiotics (yes people did die from rheumatic fever) and was almost worm food for sure twenty years ago- even with an eleventh hour c-section.   Delaying the inevitable is exactly that, though.  We all have to die, but we aren’t very good at facing it.

Dylan Thomas exhorted us to, “Rage, rage at the dying of the light.”  I think there is a sort of futility in that gesture.  On one hand there is the tragic death of one who seems to forfeit so much potential- someone young, someone with a great deal of talent, but then there is also the tragic life of one who is suffering and weary of life who longs for the sleep and peace of death and can’t find it.  God can make sense of such paradox, but I can’t.

There have been times in my life when I have wondered why I have been left to suck up valuable oxygen while those who I feel to be more worthy of life die.  That’s a question that I can only leave to faith- and to trust in the wisdom of God.  I figure no matter how long I am here, it’s only for a limited time.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

Smells Like a Man Cave, Return of the Prodigal Fanny, and Feral Cats

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I don’t have much of a sense of smell.  Even as a child I had really bad sinuses and constant upper respiratory infections.  After years of working in and around noxious chemicals, smoking two packs a day and then some for years, and the fire extinguisher incident, I was told not to be surprised if I was never able to smell anything.

What sense of smell I regained after having sinus surgery a few years ago is vestigial at best and not terribly reliable.  The only odors I can detect are strong- I have to be really careful with perfume, for instance,  and the scents I can detect fairly well are usually offensive.  I seldom can smell the peonies in May for instance, but I can always smell cigarettes, man-funk,  puke or shit.  Go figure.  Sometimes I smell things that I know aren’t there, which is really bizarre.  I guess one could call that phenomenon “olfactory hallucinations,”  if there is such a thing. 

I didn’t realize why non-smokers are so militant about people smoking in their airspace until I had not smoked for a few years.  After I had sinus surgery I especially noticed how noxious cig smoke is.  I might not be able to smell Chanel No.5 unless I take a bath in it, but I can smell cig smoke just getting close to a smoker.  Go figure that if I can smell anything, it’s almost always going to be nasty.

I have to be really careful with my use of perfume.  I love the stuff, but in order for me to smell it I pretty much have to marinate in it, and others around me might not appreciate that so much. 

If I go with the “poison toad” mentality(bright colors, bold patterns being nature’s warning signal) regarding personal odor, then maybe I should marinate in Chanel No.5.  I would if I could afford it.  The dollar store knock off stuff is not the same, and I want to smell good to me.  I’ve always liked bold, brassy fragrances- I’m one of the few people who really likes Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew- probably because they’re the only ones I can truly smell.  Jerry hates just about every kind of fragrance (odd because he’s a hard core smoker) so I am lucky to get away with Sand and Sable or Inner Realm (which is hard to find but lovely.)  Chanel No.5 or Liz Taylor’s Passion (another wonderfully strong, bold perfume) completely gross him out.  He thinks the body lotions from Bath and Body Works are too strong.  Puh-leeze!

Mom always hated Youth Dew, and if I wore it around her it would give her migraines.  I have encountered not a few people who have had the same reaction, so I don’t wear Youth Dew any more.  Pity.  I like it.  Grandma (Mom’s  Mom) liked it too, (she wore it often, and presumably, by the gallon) and anytime I smell Youth Dew it reminds me of her.  The irony in that is if she were still alive, she’d be 95.

I just don’t want to smell offensive to others as in smelling like bad breath, skanky hair, pit funk,  nasty feet, or butt crusty.  I’d rather smell too fresh and flowery than not enough.

Fanny is the big silver and white tabby cat in the foreground.  Those who are familiar with the song “Fat Bottom Girls” by Queen will get the “Big Fat Fanny” reference.  Fanny is a large cat by any standard, and there’s some big meat on those big bones.  She’s about 15#. 

Sunday night Fanny got out which terrified me as she is an indoor cat, she’s declawed, and she’s slow.  Yesterday morning I think she finally got hungry enough and realized that I would be doling out wet food to Fluffy Butt (the normal sized, long haired cat in the background) and Isabel (the 5# all black cat not pictured here.)   So as I went to the back door yesterday (Tuesday) morning, I heard the pitiful cries of a very large cat who likely hadn’t eaten much in the past 36 hours.  Though she didn’t look any worse for wear and certainly didn’t appear to have lost any weight, she snarfed most of the can of wet food (Isabel didn’t get much) and crashed out on the bathroom floor most of the rest of the day. 

All three of the cats like to watch the ferals that live out in the back yard and on the body shop lot, but Fanny is the only one who takes any sort of interest in wanting to socialize with them.   She’s three times the size of the males- and the ferals want absolutely nothing to do with her lard ass.  I am sure she probably was greeted with a cold shoulder when she decided to sneak out the back door.  When she made her way back she seemed to be quite delighted to be back in the house sucking up 9Lives and spreading out to sleep on the bath mat.

I am thankful she came back and is safe.  Even though she is a lard ass, and she likes to chew on my fingers and ears when the cat food bowl is empty, I have to love Big Fat Fanny Cat. 

I am one of those strange people who likes cats equally as well as dogs.  For a long time I only had cats, because I will only have dogs if I can have big dogs.  Our household is a bit unusual also in that the cats and dogs get along very well together.  Sheena can be mildly annoying to the cats at times but they know how to get away from her when she gets too rough.  Isabel likes to sleep on the dogs and clean out their ears.

I made the mistake of picking up one of the feral kittens out back.  They are about 12 weeks old now and are delightfully cute.  Unfortunately for me, even though grabbing him was easy (the kittens were all munching on some food we left out back) keeping hold of him was not.  This adorable grey and white kitten turned into a raging razorball of teeth and claws.  I guess these little ones are too old to be socialized now.  On the bright side, my puncture wounds are already starting to heal.

A Heartless Woman’s .38, aka, the 2nd Amendment for the Clueless Cougar

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If you understand the “heartless woman’s .38” reference you are either a.) at least as old as I am, b.) a pretty intense Journey fan, or c.) both.  It comes from the song “Dead or Alive” from the Escape album.  I think only Steve Perry could make a song about a contract killer sound sexy.

I’ve never been what anyone would call a gun enthusiast.  Dad and Grandpa did their share of hunting, and Grandpa was an expert marksman when he was in the Army, but I never really got into the whole firearms thing.  I don’t know much about guns and rifles, which I freely admit.  I was never really compelled to learn either.  Now I’ve been talked into taking a concealed-carry class (Dad’s idea, which Jerry chimed right along in on) so I figured if I’m going to do that I might as well do it right.

I actually bought a handgun, something I never thought I would ever have any possible reason for doing.

I had planned on buying a .38 special derringer, but ended up with a 5 shot .357 magnum revolver.  It’s a Taurus 605, not the most expensive small frame revolver one can buy, but not cheap either.  It has a built-in safety lock- and the trigger is relatively easy.   The upside of the .357 magnum is you can use the .38 special ammo (cheaper and easier to find) at least for practice.  Apparently you can use .38 special ammo with the .357 magnum but not the other way around.  I’ve learned many new and interesting things about firearms and self-defense, not just in the gun class but also about my own mentality and sense of detachment.

Shooting my new gun is an experience, and for a beginner, I don’t aim too bad.  It’s sort of like horseshoes and hand grenades- even using the .38s, close counts.  If I have to use it I can, and I don’t see me hesitating should the situation arise.  I do need much more practice on the firing range and with using the speed loader.  With the speed loader I get five more rounds.

I still have to go get my concealed-carry permit, and I need to get an appropriate holster before I can actually carry a loaded gun.

I’m glad to have bought a decent gun and to have taken the class.  I don’t want to shoot anyone but I also don’t want to be a victim.

I’ve been so busy that I don’t get to do much besides work which is a shame.

I don’t have a semi-automatic (at least not yet) but I agree with the above sentiment.

 

 

Denial is Not a River in Egypt, (Though I May Be Its Queen,) and Interesting Words

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I would never describe myself as “optimistic,” “naive,” or “trusting.”  On a good day I am pragmatic, jaded, and wary.  On a bad day I am pessimistic, burned out, and paranoid.    Today’s prevailing emotional state lands me somewhere between a good day and a bad day, a perfect neutral on the scale. 

Admittedly, in my ongoing effort to maintain some semblance of mental health, I overlook quite a few realities.  I am pleased that Steve-o is gainfully employed and I hope and pray he stays that way.  Even so, I am worried about the upcoming birth of his offspring.  The whole grandmother thing doesn’t bother me too much- I am old- and far younger women than I have been first time grandmothers.  What does tug at me is the fact that the two of them aren’t married, and that fathers of children have precious few rights in such a situation.  Fathers don’t have much say in their children’s lives even if they are married to the children’s mothers.  If they decide not to get along, Steve-o will have to a.) pay support out the wazoo, and b.) fight for what little rights the state does accord fathers. 

Maybe some of my worry is actually my bad habit of guilt tripping just a wee bit.  Then again, the male contributor of Steve-o’s DNA wasn’t particularly interested in him, (or any other child, unless- like his current wife’s children, it came with a monthly government check) and I think it was the happiest day of my ex’s life when he learned he could sign off his parental rights and never pay child support again.  Perhaps I am just cynical- or my ex was not normal, or a combination of both- but I had always been under the impression that most guys deep down really don’t care that much about their kids. 

I have to admit that one of my fears is that I will be cut out of my grandchild’s life in much the same way that I rescued Steve-o from enduring weekends and holidays from hell with my evil ex mother-in-law.   Granted, I know better than to give a 20 month old an entire box of graham crackers .  I have more sense than to collect highly breakable crystal figurines and display them within the reach of a toddler (I have large dogs…my house is Sheena-proof-duh),  and I’m just not cruel enough to make a three year old sleep alone in the basement, but, should the baby’s mother decide to give Steve-o the heave-ho, I might never get to see my grandchild. 

The difference might just be that I don’t think Steve-o will give up on his offspring without a fight.

I am astonished by how much he really seems to care.  He’s been to the Dr. appointments and the ultrasound.  He makes sure she pays attention to her diet and health and he doesn’t smoke around her.  He even bought a four door car and is trolling about for super safe car seats.  Again, I am not prone to mushy sentimentality, but for a guy who didn’t plan to become a father any time soon he is getting with the program and on top of that, I honestly think he is looking forward to the impending birth.  I don’t think she is going to allow him to record any video, but I know he’s going to be right in there watching every gory detail.

Believe it or not, I’ve actually observed “natural” childbirth.  As far as my own personal experience, there is absolutely nothing natural about childbirth, but some women are able to give birth without surgical intervention.  When my sister had her first two kids, both times my poor brother-in-law couldn’t handle the sight of blood, and he passed out pretty early on in the proceedings.  I went in with her for lack of another warm body, and partially out of my own morbid curiosity.  Thankfully, she always had her kids quickly and with very little trouble, most unlike me.  It’s not that terrible to observe the birth process, but then I have had automotive technicians call me “iron guts.”  Once I had to retrieve a finger that one of the guys got chopped off in a fan blade, ice it down, and then drive his sorry ass to the ER, while the rest of the guys stood around freaking out because there was blood.  Pussies.  At least they were able to reattach the poor guy’s finger, although his hand looked pretty nasty for a long time. 

I don’t know if Steve-o has gotten the “iron guts” tendencies from me or not, but I get to find out soon enough.  I get to do one of my favorite things, which is to be a fly on the wall and observe from a distance.  In the matter of giving birth I far prefer being an observer versus being a participant any day. 

The medical profession has its share of tantalizing, technical words that baffle outsiders.  I know quite a few medical terms (especially the more gross ones) so I can catch a few snippets here and there that most people won’t get.  I’ve probably spent more time in doctor’s offices and hospitals than the average person too, although camping out in medical facilities is one of my least favorite activities. 

Here are a few of my favorite medical terms:

eviscerate: to rip the guts out of

co-morbid: along with, as relating to diseases that like to travel together

gynecomastia: man-boobs (really, you can look it up!)

exsanguination: bleeding to death

pruritus ani: butt itch

 

It’s not necessarily a medical term, but, piles: old time word for hemorrhoids.

I’m a veritable fountain of scatological information today!

A Rare Quiet Moment, Secret Speculations and Twists of Memory

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It’s not terribly often that I have a sort of quiet day.  Usually I have more than enough to do, but today- not so much.  I sort of regret getting so much done on Saturday but then again, it’s always better to take the opportunity to get caught up than to take a chance on staying behind and having to scramble and rush to get things done.  It leaves me a bit bored today, but better to be bored once in awhile than constantly buried.

I have to come to terms with the reality that the seasons have changed- Fall Monsoon is in full swing with the cooler temperatures and torrential rain that occurs this time of year.  I can only hope that in the next few weeks there will be at least some opportunity for foliage-gazing and a road trip or two.  I should try to use some of my vacation time and just plain get out for awhile even if only for a day trip here and there.

If I had to choose a favorite time of  “fashion in history,”  it would have to be the 1940’s.  Having broad shoulders and a large chest weren’t liabilities back then, and women’s clothes were actually designed to fit women.

Everyone wore hats.  Way cool.  I love hats- and red lipstick, and dresses with sleeves.  Compare the above pic with modern “fashion” and you have a good case for the devolution of humanity.

I rest my case.  And these are supposed to be fashionable people, not the brain-dead zombies of Wal-Mart.

It’s no crime to be large.  I’m no Calista Flockhart either, but coverage is key.  Nobody wants to see your backfat, meaty arms, thunder thighs or love handles.  Just because people burned bras back in the 1960’s doesn’t mean going braless- or mistaking a flimsy little tank top for a bra- is a good idea.

I think that the unisex movement of the 60’s and 70’s led to much of the fashion confusion out there today.  Most heterosexual men don’t have a problem dressing like men simply because it doesn’t take a whole lot of thought.  T-shirts, flannel shirts, jeans, whitey-tighties, tube socks and velcro tennis shoes are all you need to complete a Straight Man wardrobe.  Straight men’s attire is boring, but it’s good for functionality and coverage.   It’s fat women and gay men who have the most potential for polluting the landscape with their wretched fashion choices.  Oh, and shug, eyeliner is for girls. Or is it that you want everyone to know that you’re the queen in this couple? Maybe you femmes are just happy to live out the fairy fantasy.  Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

Large women have the potential to dress most tragically-

Maybe I’m just sort of old and cranky and especially misanthropic today.  I didn’t even have to deal with too many of the unwashed masses, so I should be a bit more patient today, but I’m not.

Perhaps I remember a time when people had a little more pride in appearances, or I’d like to think so.  I did live through the 70’s, which was a decade that was to fashion as a trainwreck is to transportation.  I don’t think I could bear to wear those horrid thick waxy polyester pants ever again.  Especially if they are green, yellow, orange or brown.

God’s ATM? Some Armchair Philosophy and Theology, and Odd Cuisine

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I don’t think God would mind if the driver of this PT Cruiser borrowed $1.40 from the kitty to replace the right rear taillight bulb.  Yeah, not only do I notice vanity plates and the burned out taillight, I also notice the big scrape on the left side of the rear bumper cover.  I’ve been in automotive way too long. 

Anyone who could afford to be God’s ATM could probably afford a little more high style ride than a PT Cruiser.  I would imagine if God were to drive a car He would pick something really good like a Mercedes or a BMW, not an underpowered and pathetically forgettable Chrysler offering.    On a philosophical and theological level, the thought of someone being God’s ATM- even as a sort of joke- and especially while driving a PT Cruiser- is a bit unnerving.  First of all, I really don’t think God needs money.  He created the universe, so it would stand to reason if He needed a few Ben Franklins ($100’s) and Yuppie Food Stamps ($20’s) for some reason that He could handle that without any help from a guy who really needs to check his bulbs and who also needs to stop backing up into poles.

Seriously, if God is God, then what in the flying thunder can anyone do for Him?  It smacks of arrogance and hubris for anyone to think he or she is indisposable to God.  The paradox in this is that humanity was created to serve God but apart from God we can’t even do that.   I am reminded of little kids who fashion crafts from things their parents have bought and present the crafts back to the parents as “gifts.”  Technically, you’re giving me my own stuff back, only now it’s scribbled and slobbered on.  That’s about how good of a job we humans do for God.  We take his stuff, make it crappy, and then- if we’re feeling generous- we give it a teeny tiny bit of it back to Him. 

We put our kids’ lame artwork on the fridge not because it’s good (generally it’s anything BUT fine art) but because we love our kids, and they tried.  I’d like to think that God smiles on our lame efforts too, but I really don’t want to fall under the illusion that I’m all that great or important.  I know I’m not. 

I’m certainly not even close to being God’s ATM. 

 

 

Why, oh, why do people whose ancestors come from the British Isles eat some of the most disgusting things?   Apparently canned sheep tongues are popular in Australia- complete with the cute little sheepie pictured on the can.   I’m surprised they don’t put the cute little sheepie picture on the lamb and rice dog food.  Americans generally aren’t into mutton, so maybe that’s why they picture dogs on the dog food bags.  Dogs may be pictured on the bags for the benefit of the illiterate, but I could see how a rube might think that dog food is actually made from dog meat, rather than, “This is what your dog is supposed to eat.”  Never underestimate the power and depth of stupidity and/or ignorance. 

 

 

No, Virginia, there is NO dog meat in the dog food bag, regardless of what you see in the picture.

I know some people in the US eat beef tongue (nasty enough) but think about it.  I’m sure sheep lick each other’s butts just like dogs do, but even if they didn’t,  I don’t want to eat something’s tongue. 

The Brits get the prize for the weirdest food in the Western world by far though.  Americans love potato chips, right- but in civilized flavors, such as sour cream and onion, barbeque, cheddar cheese, hot and spicy, etc.

Brits love potato chips (although they call them “crisps”) too, but the flavors are a bit more unique:

Mmmm, Cajun Squirrel and Chili Chocolate.  

Remind me if I ever travel to the UK to bring my own stash of food.

Why I Am No Paragon of Morality, Frumpiness and Poverty=Deliverance From Temptation?

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I try to avoid scandal and gossip for the most part, but a snippet in the (for lack of a better term) gossip column of yesterday’s Columbus Dispatch caught my eye.  To my horror, none other than Neal Schon has been implicated in a rather sordid affair with the White House party crasher chick.  I think he could do better, but that’s neither here nor there.  Granted, Neal Schon is probably the finest living guitarist on the planet today, (and nothing would change my opinion on that one) but that doesn’t mean one should look to him as some kind of moral example.  If anyone were tempted to be a tomcat, I can see how Neal Schon would be- he’s still a good looking guy, even though he’s well into geezer territory,  he’s a phenomenal songwriter and guitar player, and he has money to burn, etc.  He can pick and choose his women freely.  I find it hard to imagine too many women (yours truly included) who would have the moral fortitude to say no to a dude like that, even if you were well aware that regardless of whatever dalliances you get to enjoy, the relationship itself will almost assuredly turn out to be temporary.  In other words, I don’t know too many women, especially Journey fans of cougar age, who would turn down an opportunity to get busy with Neal Schon. 

I think in some ways my troll-like appearance and lack of material success has helped me maintain some kind of morality, especially in recent years.  I’m not tempted to drop everything and take off with a hot rock legend, but there is more to the story.  I’d never be offered the opportunity in a million years.  It can’t be a temptation if it’s an impossibility.  Jerry has his faults, but I’m lucky to have an old man with hair and teeth who is gainfully employed. 

Any dude I could scrounge at my advanced age, with my rather pathetic bait, would more than likely be a downgrade.  I am not digging correctional institute inmates, dudes 80 and older, the chronically unemployed, or deviants from the sex offender registry, even if there were a chance that they might have working Johnsons.  I’d much rather use my imagination and battery operated assistance like I already do than to stoop to an even lower level.   I hate to say it, but there ain’t no Coupe deVille in any Cracker Jack box I would be able to pick from.   Jerry, with his drunken tirades and ED, is definitely no prize, but then again, neither am I.

The silver lining of this dark cloud is: It’s a lot easier to be chaste and moral when you have no access to the alternative.  I should really be thankful for my frumpiness and relative poverty when all is said and done.  I get to stay out of trouble- if only by default.  No moral dilemmas here for me, and that’s a good thing.

I freely admit I don’t have the moral fiber to resist that kind of temptation.  If (and this is most certainly in theory) I was some hot chick that every man alive wanted, I would be the first one out there sampling the buffet.  If it were raining men, I would be right on out there with a big old bucket.  Believe that.  I can’t blame Neal Schon for doing exactly the same thing know I would do (only I would, obviously, be banging every hot dude at my disposal) if I had the means.  Truth be told, I don’t know very many people, when given the means, would be able to resist.  The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak- especially if the flesh is hot and has plenty of cash and popularity.  Yeah, you know it’s morally wrong and you might even feel guilty, but at the end of the day I know I don’t have that kind of fortitude.

Nobody in their right mind is going to settle for last night’s leftovers when you’re having gourmet dinners delivered to your door. 

Perhaps it’s wrong for me to put a theological spin on things, especially with the clear and ever present knowledge that a lot of my outward moral behavior is by default, but maybe this is one of the things Jesus is talking about in the Lord’s Prayer.  Lead us not into temptation.  I know all too well if I were able to get close enough to that kind of temptation- hot dudes, sordid affairs, etc. that I would fall right on in. 

That’s not to say I avoid temptation altogether.  As much as I would like to say otherwise, even though chastity is the least of my worries (by default), I am tempted by a lot of other things.  I am tempted to be judgmental and sarcastic- even though I don’t have any kind of inherent virtue apart from the grace of God.  Left to my own devices I know full well I am a vindictive, vengeful, greedy, sarcastic bitch.  As hard as it is to take sometimes, I should be more thankful for my situation and shortcomings- if only to be reminded of my proper place.

I can’t point a derisive finger at Neal Schon or throw stones at his current paramour.  I’ve probably done far worse (though much more privately) in my lifetime than either of them.  I live in the glass house, and I have skeletons aplenty in my closets.  The major difference is that because of my frumpiness, poverty and obscurity nobody cares.  I’m thankful for that too.  What happened in the ’93 Camry stays in the Camry, you know?

The Camry tells no tales.  I am very thankful for this fact.

I even have a certain amount of pity for serial fornicators.  Even though it has been a very long time ago, I do know the thrill and the excitement of the pursuit of forbidden fruit.  It’s a hell of a rush- until the excitement dies, the other party decides to chase something else, and all you have left is shame and regret and a faded memory.  I know all too well the embarrassment of having done ridiculous things under the spell of temporary lust.  It’s not rational.  Following one’s heart- or one’s desires I should say- can lead one to act like a horse’s ass. 

Maybe there is more to the story for these lovers.  I know, it’s like a car wreck.  You don’t want to watch but you can’t help it.  Everyone wants dirty laundry (to quote Don Henley) and it’s particularly juicy when it comes from a highly unlikely and shocking source. Perhaps there is more to this sordid saga than simply animal attraction. Perhaps they truly do love each other.  Sending the cuckolded husband a pic of one’s junk is probably not the most tactful move, but I have to admit,  it is funny.  I wouldn’t mind a peek myself. 

 

 

 

This Old Cougar, Personal Landscaping, and Age Has Its Advantages

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I have to admit I enjoy life a lot more in my cougardom than I ever have previously.  There is still plenty of room for improvement in my quality of life, but over all I am thankful that life in general sucks less than it used to.   My childhood consisted of thirteen years of wearing bad clothes, being a klutzy and nearsighted social pariah, and getting the living thunder beat out of me by my sisters, their friends and the kids at school.  Adolescence wasn’t much better, as I was voted “Least Likely to Get Laid” in the high school Senior Will.  The good part of high school was that I didn’t get beaten up once I had the good fortune to make friends with big girls who could fight.  I looked old enough and usually had money to buy cigarettes, so protection for smokes was a fair trade.  Guys only asked for my phone number so they could call my sisters, but I can’t say I blame them.  I was nothing to look at.

Fast forward into college- that was an improvement mostly in my personal autonomy.  For the most part I could come and go as I pleased, at least as far as my limited finances and the condition of the current tires on my old Subaru allowed.  If I would have had the foresight to have ran, ran, ran away from my ex before I was naive enough to marry him- and went to college in another state- life would have been different.  I don’t know if it had been better, but it would have been different.  Perhaps a better male contributor of half of Steve-o’s DNA would have actually given a shit, and perhaps Steve-o would have gotten better hair.  He managed to get off incredibly well in the genetic lottery with the exception of having bad sinuses and even worse hair.  Coarse, kinky, greasy and mousy brown, just like the sperm donor’s.  Acck.  But hair can be buzz cutted, and when your hair is nasty, the clippers are a beautiful thing.  I am glad he gave up the Robert Plant- sometime- around- 1971  hair style.  I had to wonder what kind of unauthorized insect life was living in that mess.  The only good thing about it is that he didn’t attempt dreadlocks- he has the right kind of hair for it, but Anglo men look absolutely disgusting with dreadlocks even when nature does give them coarse, kinky and greasy hair.  It’s just not culturally congruent- unless you can prove you are related to Bob Marley.

With a good haircut he almost looks normal.  This was not a good haircut.  They didn’t shave it down to 1/4″ or less.  The only good thing about his male parentage is that the sperm donor was 6’2″ .  Steve-o is 6’1″, and he certainly didn’t get height from my family.  The tallest one of us is my formerly sadistic older sister who is 5’9″.  Dad is only 5’6″ and I tower over him if I wear a three inch heel or more.  Then again, the odds are that had I chosen for myself I probably would not have bothered to procreate at all (Steve-o, the illustrious POMC, was not exactly planned) so that’s a bit creepy to mention.

I have to say my 20’s and 30’s pretty much sucked.  Between bad relationships, trying to raise the POMC (mostly alone) and constant work, it was almost all a bad nightmare.  I didn’t make the greatest decisions.  I found myself in some pretty stupid situations.   For a long time I was on a first name basis with day care managers, elementary and middle school principals and guidance counselors, and even more frightening, representatives of law enforcement.  Steve-o did not have a particularly mellow adolescence to put it mildly.  He always had to be the ringleader.  If there was trouble in a communal setting, he was generally right at the center of the action.  Hell, he didn’t need a community to get in trouble.  There’s nothing like explaining to the cable company that the $300 of pay-per-view porn that magically appeared on my statement was procured via the cable remote by my 12 year old.

But finally, I woke up one morning and Steve-o became an adult.  The fact that his first child is due in February might have something to do with it.  I am glad he is being a man and taking care of his obligations.  He even bought a four door car.  I may even dare say he is becoming a responsible adult which scares the hell out of me in a way.  Somewhere in all the chaos I went from young and struggling and constantly moving from crisis to crisis and discovered I became an old cougar.  It seemed the transformation was overnight but as I look back I realize it was by degrees.

There are some things I still find important.  Personal landscaping is a constant challenge.  Women should only have body hair in three places- the top of the head,  thinly sculptured eyebrows, and eye lashes.  Every other bit of hair is unsightly and should be removed.  Nails are another part of the personal landscape.  I like mine big, bold and brightly colored.  In nature bright colors and bold patterns are warning signs.  They say “Don’t Screw With Me.”  That’s why the poison toad is bright orange.

Toe nails must match fingernails.  It’s part of a package.

I refuse to take on the conventional wisdom of platinum blonde hair and boring earth tone makeup for older women.  First of all with my round moony face I look hideous with blonde hair.  Second of all, I like the contrast- dark black hair against my Super White skin.  Third of all I like bold eye shadows and bright lipsticks.  I am taking a cue from nature.  Let them eat the platinum blonde toads- I am brightly and boldly adorned to give the world fair warning.  I am not the average middle aged woman who is content to blend into the wall.

Now that I am in the over-40 set I get to do a lot more observing.  Age has a certain gravitas. I get away with a lot of things that younger people just can’t do. 


I did have a young girl express her dislike of my anti-Obama commentary on the back of my car today.  It was sort of hard to take her seriously because she wasn’t even alive yet when President Reagan was in office.  Too bad she didn’t live through Jimmy Carter.   Then maybe she would have understood where I was coming from.

Warm and Fuzzy as a Tire Iron, Stay Straight- It Might Come Back In Style, and Other Politically Incorrect Opinions

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Even though I am female (and a straight one at that) I am not a huggy-kissy overly sentimental type.  The public at large need not fear me randomly hugging, touching or groping anyone.  I generally avoid physical demonstrations of affection whenever possible.  I am one of those people who is very sensitive to touch even from people I do know, and I don’t want strange people touching me at all.  Maybe I’m just strange but it really creeps me out when people try to touch me in the course of conversation.  Please don’t come up behind me and put your hand on my shoulder or even worse, try to grab at my hands.  I worked with a guy who was really cool and very nice, but he was a toucher.  One day he came up behind me (but I didn’t realize who he was) and put his hand on my shoulder.  My instinctive reaction was to elbow the poor guy in the gut before I’d even realized it- a reflexive motion, but still rather mortifying.  He meant no malice and I felt really terrible about elbowing him, but I really am squeamish about unauthorized touching.   I had the hell beaten out of me way too many times as a child.

My parents weren’t into physical fighting (thankfully) but they are masters of verbal sparring and passive-aggressive revenge.  I think the older they get the more they enjoy finding creative ways to piss each other off.  Some people are into that.  I think it must be what keeps their relationship fresh after almost fifty years.  Dad knows he can get a rise out of Mom by failing to flush the downstairs toilet or by leaving his dirty socks on the floor.  Mom knows she can piss Dad off by leaving all of her various crap (and she’s virtually a hoarder so it’s everywhere) all over every flat surface in the house.  Ad nauseam.  Tit for tat, pick for pick.  Acck!

At least they aren’t into really odious pastimes, like swinging (that’s a really creepy thought considering their age) or square dancing, or having an ankle biter dog that wears clothes and perfume and goes to the groomer’s once a week, but even so their constant picking and petty fussing is unnerving.  I find it unnecessary and annoying.  As a child- since I tended to take everything literally- it took me awhile to realize that Mom, even in her manic rages, was not likely to literally rip Dad’s head off no matter how many times she threatened to.

For that she would have needed the chainsaw, and Dad’s the only one I know of who could start that damned thing.

That’s me- pragmatic and practical.  It’s what keeps me relatively sane.

Speaking of which, when I get the time I will share my latest and greatest concept in detail.  There are people out there like my parents who spend all kinds of time and money on home improvement.  I have absolutely no hardware expertise, money to burn, or knowledge of interior design or feng shui or any of that high faluting stuff.  But I  do know a thing or two about renovating This Old Cougar.

More to come, very soon!