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Clandestine Observations, Weed Whacking While Drunk-and-Stupid, and Hooray for Technology!

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I never realized how much more affordable covert surveillance equipment has become in the past few years.  Some of Jerry’s drunk-and-stupids would be positively You Tube gold.  The time he tried to start a fire in the fireplace with gasoline would have been right up there with the stuff you see on World’s Dumbest or 1,000 Ways to Die, only flashpoint doesn’t kill you, (usually) but it does burn off body hair.

Speaking of 1,000 Ways to Die  today I had to explain to some Uncle Dad (ill-educated backwoods redneck) that there’s a reason why one does not install a remote start kit on a vehicle with a manual transmission.   Something about disabling the neutral safety switch (the gadget that keeps you from starting the car unless you have your foot on the clutch) is one of those Not Very Good Ideas.  Just color me ethically cautious, but 20+ years in automotive have made me both cautious and cynical when considering the average person’s ability to understand simple directions, i.e. being 100% sure the car is in neutral when you try to start it without having your foot on the clutch.   If I’m telling you a particular modification is not a good idea, chances are I’ve either tried it (lots of experience in the School of the Burned Hand) or observed the carnage when someone else did.  I spent way too many years of my life in mechanical shops and in close proximity to body shops. 

It  does beg the question why would anyone want a remote start kit (even if you don’t drive a manual transmission car) to begin with.  I don’t want my car running without me in it.  This is Ohio, and winters can get cold, but it does not get cold enough here to warrant letting any modern car run unattended for any length of time.  That’s why vehicle manufacturers came up with all the nice innovations such as computer controlled idle and timing and electronic fuel injection.  The electronic controls make the necessary adjustments to idle, timing and fuel mix to adapt to the ambient temperature, so that puppy is going to start and run even if it’s cold.  Start the bloody thing and take off already, that’s how newer vehicles are designed.  It heats up quicker that way (both the engine and the heater, which gets hot because the cooling system from the engine gets hot) and it saves gasoline.  It’s not like back in the day when you had to play with carburetors and chokes and mechanical distributors and such, only to put the car in gear and have it stall out if you didn’t let it sit and idle and get relatively warm first.

Believe me, I don’t miss carburetion or conventional ignition one bit.  The scary thing is I am old enough to remember both- and know how they (are supposed to) work.  Rube Goldberg had nothing on 1970’s and 1980’s (blecch!) domestic carbureted vehicles’ fuel and emissions systems. It’s a bloody engineering marvel if and when they DO work.  Most of the time they didn’t, especially in the the depth of a wet, cold Ohio winter.  There’s a reason why nobody is still driving their old 1982 Chevette- many reasons, actually, but I don’t think there are very many of those old turds left that still can be driven- even if the floorboards by some Act of God failed to rust through.

I may be one of the last surviving women on the planet who knows how to decipher GM carburetor (and differential, and speedometer gear) charts.  Just because I know how to look up the component parts for these old carburetors in the old GM charts doesn’t mean they are available (most probably aren’t) but it’s a quaint old skill, sort of like using a slide rule, or writing a letter using pen and ink.  The guys who play with vintage/classic cars will understand exactly what I’m talking about, but most people will scratch their heads and wonder what the flying thunder I’m talking about.  Have fun rebuilding that four barrel Rochester for your Chevelle.  There are vintage suppliers who still deal with that old stuff, but as for me, progress is a good thing.  I may be many things, and not all of them lovely, but I am certainly not a technophobe- especially as it applies to the automotive world. I want to see a car that gets 100MPG (if it’s not too dorky- like the Smart Car that has no room but still doesn’t get any better mileage than my 4 door Yaris sedan- or expensive I would probably buy it) and for the most part I like the electronics and gadgetry available today.

However, I don’t need a remote start, even if it were safe to use them on a manual transmission vehicle (and trust me, it’s NOT!)  I really don’t mind being a bit cold for a few minutes while the heater warms up, and there are few things I disdain more than wasting gasoline.

Speaking of wasting gasoline in creative ways, I got to observe yet another drunk-and-stupid adventure last night.  Joy!  I am afraid to look in the back yard.  Jerry found himself a very sweet high-faluting John Deere weed whacker.  Now, I don’t get excited in the least about yard implements.  I don’t like yard work, and I’m doing good to even start a lawn mower or a weed whacker.  But Jerry loves yard work, and he loves the lawn tools, with the passion that middle-aged men have for all things lawn, and he gets even more excited about dangerous gasoline-powered toys when he’s good and besnookered.  After a twelve pack, and after Bob showed him how to put line in this particular weed whacker, Jerry was out to weed whack everything.  I stayed in the house with the dogs.  I am only hoping he steered clear of the tomato plants, the eggplants and the zucchinis.  I will have to go investigate tonight when I get home and can see the carnage in the light of day.  I am hoping he kept his whacking activity limited to the weeds around the sidewalk and the hedges, but redneck + alcohol + gasoline powered lawn toy is bound to equal some sort of mass destruction of plant life and anything else he could reach with the whacker.

I need to get some of the spy camera and micro DVR stuff.  Jerry out running amok with the weed whacker would have been priceless You Tube fodder.

Sins of Omission, Synchronicity, and There’s No Escaping Murphy’s Law

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I am sure the tome from the 1950’s advertised above has long been out of print, but I bet it’s most informative.  I can only imagine how quaint and tame the descriptions of sex acts in this book might sound when compared to some of the crazy things people do today.  I am sure this book does not contain terms such as, “dominatrix,” “golden shower,” “dirty Sanchez,” or “fisting.”   It may come as news to some, but there was actually sex before the 1960’s.   It was just kept behind closed doors, for the same reason most people keep the vacuum cleaner in the closet.  You know someone vacuums the floors from time to time, but you don’t necessarily want to keep the vacuum cleaner on display. 

In my case, the vacuum cleaner has been in the closet a very long time, but that’s my problem.  Involuntary celibacy is not for the faint of heart.  It is for the troll-like of body, and too soft of heart, however.

Speaking of vacuum cleaners, sometimes that’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t suck…which sucks because the vacuum cleaner is the one thing that’s supposed to suck.  No matter what I do (and I am sure that having three cats, three large dogs, and an incessant smoker doesn’t help here,) keeping the damned thing unclogged takes more time than the actual act of vacuuming.   I would like to pose a challenge to any vacuum cleaner manufacturer.  If you can provide me a vacuum cleaner (that I don’t  have to unclog, replace the belt, or completely rework every three minutes of use) that will actually suck up dog hair and the various other detritus- especially those damned cigarette pack cellophanes that Jerry trails behind him- that ends up on my floors, then you will actually have a decent product that is that is worth the $100-$500 one has to pay for it.  So far I have not been able to find any vacuum cleaner from any price range, manufacturer or design that I deem to be effective.  Let me do your product testing! 

I highly doubt that any vacuum cleaner manufacturer would be able to build a vacuum cleaner that would work for any length of time in my house.  There are just too many opportunities for Murphy’s Law to manifest itself.  First of all there’s the dog hair, most notably Sheena hair.  Sheena is a Husky/GSD crossbreed- with the horrific perennially shedding thick double coat found in both of those breeds.  To make it worse, Sheena’s hair is predominately white, so it doesn’t blend in.  So at any given time, save for right after I’ve vacuumed, you will find tufts of white fluff pretty much everywhere.  The house has been Sheenatized. Lilo also has a dense double coat, but the bulk of her shedding is in spring and fall (or the Central Ohio seasons of Monsoon and Fall Monsoon) so hers isn’t usually as bad.  Clara is the lightest shedder, with the sparser Malinois coat- but during the twice a year blowouts even she can drop some serious hair.

Dog hair is lethal enough to vacuum cleaners, but then you have Mr. Cig Pack Cellophane dropping those nasty bits of clear (and therefore almost impossible to see) plastic all over creation to clog up the works along with the hair.  One may pose the question, “Why doesn’t he throw them away in the trash can?,” to which I must reply, he was raised by wolves.  I am doing good for him to get a daily change of clothes and a  daily shower.  Beyond that, he pretty well leaves a trail of wrappers, cig butts, pop and/or beer cans, wherever he goes.  There is a laundry chute in the bathroom and the whitey-tighties still end up on the floor.  His mother did not train her POMC very well.  I hope I did better with mine.

My favorite Rube Goldberg machine is in the “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” movie- the machine that serves up Pee-Wee’s breakfast, including his smiley face pancake and Mr. T Cereal.

To me, the Rube Goldberg machine provides a wonderful illustration of logical progression- what led up to this and that and finally the final result.   It also is a wonderful illustration of what happens if a step in the progression fails.

For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For the want of a horse the rider was lost.
For the want of a rider the battle was lost.
For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
I remember these verses from an old book of children’s stories my Grandma had- all instructional tales with a moral to the story, similar to (and included some of) Aesop’s Fables.  Today when I think about these verses it makes me wonder how history would have been different had Operation Valkyrie succeeded, or even more dramatically, had the elaborate chain of events that led to WWI fallen apart somewhere. 
 
Yes, it may sound cheeky, but I wonder what my life had been like had I actually had the proper bait to go trolling for men.  🙂   
 
Then again one cannot forget the condition of synchronicity- all things working in parallel, or what I see to be the overwhelming tide of the will of God that makes the events of history plod onward and forward in ways we can neither control nor fully understand, no matter what  individual human effort is made to prevent or change them. 
 
Personally, I thought killing Hitler was a pretty freaking good idea- but as sadistic as it might sound, apparently there was a reason he lived as long as he did, and a reason why he wasn’t killed by the many assassination attempts against him.  I don’t understand why despots and sleazeballs are allowed to keep on truckin’ and those who really could be a benefit to society either die in what seems an untimely manner, or live out their days in impotent obscurity.  I can’t see the entire picture and I don’t pretend to.  But God is behind it all, whether we see things to be good or evil or incomprehensible.  One of the hardest things for me to do- being a rational type and all- is to stop trying to understand and just believe God has a purpose.
 
Far be it from me to claim to have more wisdom than Solomon, or to question the sovereignty of God like Job. 
 
It can be entertaining to play the history “what if” game- but ultimately there’s no escaping Murphy’s Law.  Humanity has been drowning in its grandiosity and hubris ever since the tower of Babel.  I can’t say Obama is the only human to get caught up in his own hubris, but he’s a good example of it.  I can only hope and pray that by the grace and mercy of God this blathering fool is booted out of the Oval Office- and that the American people have learned a lesson not only about the ways of petty tyrants, but of the folly of “sympathy voting.”  Isn’t it just as racist to vote FOR someone just because he’s black (or half-black) but clearly unqualified to hold the office as it is to vote AGAINST a qualified man simply because he’s white?

I don’t wish even someone as misguided as Obama eternity with Beezelbub, or even scathing, humiliating defeat,  but the way he’s going now it seems like scathing, humiliating defeat might just be what he wants.

Ain’t No Coupe deVille In That Cracker Jack Box, and the Inevitability of Entropy

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My sympathies to Meat Loaf (the singer/keyboardist of late 1970’s legend, not the dish) but as far as the pithy bits of life and love, he was spot on.  It really sucks that the poor guy has asthma.  It’s bad enough trying to sing – or do much of anything else- with constant sinus drainage and congestion, (even after sinus surgery I still have to sleep somewhat sitting up to keep from choking on snot) but I can’t imagine trying to sing and not be able to breathe.  I can understand why he has a hard time performing- asthma, heat and humidity, and he’s not a young man.  It’s a shame that a man of his talent would be so vexed.

I’ve always liked Meat Loaf, ever since I got the Bat out of Hell cassette tape and set it right on the “I’m breaking out of my body and flying away….ayy…like a bat out of hellll!” refrain at the end of the song so that’s what would blare from the stereo speakers when Mom started her old Ford.   Never mind that I was underscoring the obvious, because Mom drives like a bat out of hell, always has, and everyone including local law enforcement knows it.  That was funny.  Almost as funny as when I put the “F—  the IRS” and the “Bad Cop/No Donut” bumper stickers on that old Ford.  Dad should never have let her have anything with a displacement over two liters, let alone a 350 Windsor.  It didn’t corner for shit,  and the suspension was shot, but that old Ford would go nine kinds of fast in a straight line.

I’ve seen many Cracker Jack boxes in my life, but the prize always seems to be somewhat disappointing.  It would be my luck to get this one:

Apparently it’s a guide to clubbing in the Short North?  This little booklet was a Cracker Jack prize at one time (I actually took this pic in a museum.)  It must hearken back to more innocent times, when “queer” was just another way of saying “a bit strange.”

Some of the Cracker Jack prizes I remember from my own childhood were kind of cool- the plastic mini magnifying glass which you could use to either fry ants or melt army men, if you had the patience, was one of my favorites.  I did have the patience, and I also had plenty of time since I really didn’t have very many friends.

There’s a statement to be made here.  Fanny is a big, fat cat.  She is every bit of 15#, which is just plain lardy for a female cat.  Fanny, for some inexplicable reason enjoys napping on my AB Lounge.  She is not amused when I dislodge her ample carcass so I can do my obligatory 50 daily crunches.  Perhaps she is trying to convince me of the futility of the pursuit of fitness, or she’s just a fat cat who has managed to find a comfy place to nap that the dogs can’t get to.

Entropy is a fascinating concept to me- a sort of cosmic Murphy’s Law.

Entropy (n):

1:
a measure of the unavailable energy in a closed thermodynamic system that is also usually considered to be a measure of the system’s disorder, that is a property of the system’s state, and that varies directly with any reversible change in heat in the system and inversely with the temperature of the system; broadly : the degree of disorder or uncertainty in a system
2:
a : the degradation of the matter and energy in the universe to an ultimate state of inert uniformity
b : a process of degradation or running down or a trend to disorder
3:
I wouldn’t even pretend to be a physicist.  My knowledge of physics is pretty well limited to how it relates to internal combustion, ratios and other things automotive, but I understand entropy very well.   The Cliff’s Notes definition is:
Everything eventually turns to shit.
What a depressing thought.
Intelligence is a constant, the population is growing.

Eat Mo’ Possum, Not for the Squeamish, and Things Dogs Do

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It’s 5AM.  Do you know where your possum is?

It’s Sheena and Lilo’s before breakfast snack!

Of course, Sheena and Lilo were not this tactful in their preparation, and they didn’t even get around to cooking or plating their unfortunate marsupial morsel.  (Apparently in Australia, possum is considered a meat entree, much to my surprise.)  They were playing tug-of-war with it and were at the point where the guts squirt out,  almost at the point where the head pops off (Clara and Lilo have done this before) when I opened the door to call the dogs in. 

Nice.  I get to distract Sheena and herd her away from her kill (Lilo will drop it, and Clara knows better than to butt in on another dog’s kill, but Sheena…Sheena is Sheena) and then I get to go get a flashlight and a shovel and at least toss the possum remnants and guts over the fence, all before most people ever get out of bed. 

The worst thing about Sheena killing stuff other than I have no idea how she does it, is that blood shows up really dramatically on her white coat.  She came in looking worse than Cujo, covered in possum blood.  Perhaps her killing method somehow involves severing the carotid artery or jugular vein rather than just snapping the unfortunate critter’s neck like a normal dog.  I am really surprised Sheena is capable of a bloody kill- considering that her canine teeth are nothing more than little stubs.  Now it could have been that Lilo (whose canine teeth are quite long and sharp) made the kill and she and Sheena were fighting over it, but Lilo is generally an ambush predator.  When she and Clara tag team, Lilo flushes the critter out while Clara generally makes the kill- like a normal dog- she grabs hold and snaps their necks.

Or it just could have been that the artery was severed as they were trying to pull the unfortunate vermin apart.

Regardless of the method employed I had both a bloody dog (I checked for punctures and discovered it was not Sheena’s own blood) and a mess of possum pieces to clean up.  Acck.

It’s a good thing I am not easily nauseated.  I came close to getting a little grossed out when some of the guts stuck to the shovel and I had to scrape them off.  That’s one reason why I like to take the girls’ kills away from them before they have a chance to eviscerate them.  It’s less messy if there’s only one piece.  The other reason, of course, is because Lord only knows what kinds of bacteria and parasites- or even rabies- might be hiding out in a dead critter.  The girls are all current on their rabies shots, and they are all on a worming med, (Heartgard and other products that contain Ivermectin protect against all kinds of internal parasites, not just heartworm)  but I still don’t think it prudent for them to be munching about on wild critters.  That possum probably lived its whole life eating out of the dumpsters at the Drunk and Domestics or out of the City BBQ dumpster, but who knows for sure where it’s been?

Don’t let her fluffy white cuteness and dental issues fool you: Bad teeth and abysmal coordination aside, Sheena is a killer. So far, one possum, one squirrel, and one (possible) blue jay.  I still think the blue jay was already dead and she just decided the wings might be be tasty, since the jay wasn’t using them anymore, but Jerry insists that somehow Sheena must have grown her own wings and killed the jay herself.

Dogs, like human children, can do some pretty gross things.  Kayla, our lovely GSD who lived to be almost sixteen, used to adore rolling in dead things.  There are few things nastier than 95# of dog that smells like carrion rolling about on the carpet.  Her love of all things dead and rotting was probably Kayla’s worst vice.  Thankfully, she didn’t mind a bath and would even raise her paws one at a time so we could get in between her toes and pads. 

Clara and Lilo have had their moments of eviscerating critters- usually squirrels- which can be disturbing, but they will drop it on command.  Sheena, not so much.  Once Sheena gets on to something like that she is not satisfied until it is scattered everywhere.  When she killed the squirrel, I had to get it from her by squirting her in the face with water and grabbing the squirrel with welding gloves so I could toss its sorry carcass over the fence.

I still have to wonder about eating possum.  I have been known to eat rabbits and squirrels (both tasty) but I’ve not tried possum.  I certainly don’t want it after Sheena has gummed it to death.  That possum was pretty large to boot.  If I  had to guess from the size of the pieces and the volume of guts it was probably the size of a very large cat.

Possum… the other white meat?

Monumental Moments in Advertising, More Crap I Don’t Need, and Let’s Go to the Fair!

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Or, if you’re poor and don’t have a dime for the pay toilet, just slide your skank ass under the door.

I haven’t seen a pay toilet since the Hills store got closed down in either 1981 or 1982.  Perhaps someone finally realized that the skinny girls simply slipped under the door and used the john for free, and the fat ones just dropped their deuces on the drain in the middle of the floor.  That was something very nasty to walk in on- someone’s steaming pile sitting on the drain, reeking and drawing flies.  Acck.   Back then I was one of the few who neither being waif-thin, nor coordinated enough to make it under the door, would generally either scrounge a dime somewhere or wait until I got home.  I am proud to say that I never stooped to dropping a deuce on the floor drain.

‘Tis sad if my list of greatest accomplishments has to include refraining from crapping on the floor.

There are certain odious advertising jingles that tend to stick on one’s head.  The Shower-to-Shower jingle has to be the all time most annoying of all time.  I do have to appreciate the fact that in this particular commercial they gave the Woman Who Forgot To Sprinkle her very own private dinghy so she wouldn’t stink up the yacht for everyone else.  That’s compassion for you.  It’s better than what the poor People Who Remembered to Sprinkle had to endure in the elevator with the Non-Sprinkler du jour.  (I should not be old enough to remember these commercials…)

Today for some reason someone mentioned Colt 45 Malt Liquor, which I’ve always thought to be glorified cheap beer, but then I’m not a drinker, and I’m certainly not a beer drinker, (I think all beer tastes like earwax smells) so how would I know if it’s tasty or if it’s pisswater, or whether or not white people do actually drink it?  So I had this lovely little tune running through my head for half  the morning.

The list of absolutely horrible 70’s and 80’s commercials is virtually endless.  The good point about them is even when they were horrible, they were at least original.  Today there is such a dearth of creativity in advertising- they just dig up an old Heart song and try to make it apply to the damned Swiffer thing that isn’t worth two shits to pick up dog hair- or anything else for that matter.   

I blame the popularity of free love and way too much LSD for this one, even though there’s (thankfully!) no jingle in it:  1970’s Chuck Wagon commercial.   They sure did make that dog’s hallucination look real and they sure did make that dog food look tastier than most of Taco Bell’s menu.  Despite the originality and creativity of this ad, I don’t think that particular brand of pressure-cooked lips and assholes and other meat by-products we humans would rather not know exist is still being marketed.  I am sure that Chuck Wagon, like every other cheap dog food of that era, was the end result of the final disposition of diseased livestock. I still wonder if it was the Chuck Wagon or Mom’s dreadful cooking that led to Suzie the Dachshund’s untimely death. Suzie loved the Chuck Wagon- but she also loved socks and underwear crotches, and Mom’s mashed potatoes with the big uncooked lumps and big black burnt flakes,  so Suzie wasn’t exactly a picky eater.  Most dogs aren’t terribly picky.

I have always liked Dr. Pepper and Diet Dr. Pepper, but this 70’s Dr. Pepper Commercial is almost enough to make one shoot oneself in the head to end the insanity.  It seems sort of Communist too- I can imagine the Soviet version: You must all be Peppers! 

Sometimes when I’m bored I find it entertaining to look at all the crap I don’t need.  Lighted slippers?   If you’re that freaking blind turn on the light. 

Jerry has decided I need to go with him and his sister to the fair next week.  I enjoy going to the fair, but I hope that the current stygian heat tones down a notch- hopefully somewhere below 90 degrees- otherwise they might end up having to call the squad on me.  I don’t tolerate heat worth a damn, and I’m pretty much confined to the Great Indoors when the temperature is much above 85.  So I really hope it cools down a bit.

I bet the chickens would be happier if it cools off some too.

Better yet, just leave me in the refrigerated room with the butter cow.

I think that most young kids in the Central Ohio area- the Columbus metro area especially- only get to see farm animals at the fair.  I don’t know if that’s entirely a good thing.  Even though I grew up in the middle of nowhere, I did live in town and therefore never really had hands-on experience dealing with livestock- except for the heifers in Taco Bell and Wal Mart, but that’s not quite the same thing. 

The only animals that (miraculously) didn’t scare the bejeezus out of me as a child were dogs.  Big dogs, small dogs, even dogs that other people branded as “mean,”  never gave me any trouble.  I got in trouble with Dad one time for climbing the fence and cuddling up to a neighbor’s Rottweiler, but the “mean” dog didn’t bother me at all.   He was quite friendly toward me, and the other kids were too afraid to mess with me when I was in the dog pen with the Rottie.

No problem at all with the dogs.  If only other humans were as easy to interact with…

Embrace the Technology, Ask the Magic 8 Ball, and Catharsis by Proxy

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Thankfully I’ve never really been a technophobe.  Unlike my “better half,” who just about had fits of apoplexy trying to operate a touch screen phone, I would rather embrace the technology, especially when said technology is something that will make my life easier. 

For being cougar-aged I think I do pretty good with texting, Facebook, e-mail, Twitter, etc. and I try not to let the gadgets intimidate me.  The MP3 player, for instance, is one of my favorite innovations, because it has freed me from both testy cassette tapes and CDs that skip at the slightest vibration.  I can also put my entire music collection in a tiny box that is just a wee bit larger than a credit card, which is convenient too.  Granted, most of my music collection was originally released long before both CDs and MP3s, but it’s pretty much all been converted to digital format, so I don’t have to worry about being right in the middle of “Bohemian Rhapsody” or “Dixie Highway” only to have the damned tape break.  This is a many splendored and beautiful thing.

However, just because something is new doesn’t mean that it’s essential or even desirable.  Some good examples of innovation gone horribly wrong include:

No Wash Underwear!

I bet those would smell really good after a few days.

The “As Seen on TV” crap is always good for a laugh, but as far as practical application goes, I really can’t see it here:

Spray On Hair!

I wonder what this stuff does if you get caught in a rain storm?  Or if you want to go to the pool?  I bet it would be cheaper to just buy a can of Rust-o-leum in the appropriate shade and spray away.  Or maybe try some of that fake fur that Grandma used for those horrible doll faced Kleenex boxes – the same stuff I covered the dash of my ’77 Rabbit with.  I’m sure there’s some waterproof double-faced tape that would hold it on.

One of the more endearing devices I acquired for my amusement actually dates back to the late 1940’s.  Consulting the Magic 8 Ball always ensures a good laugh even though it is about 50% accurate on a good day.  That makes it about as reliable as a Central Ohio extended weather forecast. 

Let’s have a bit of fun with the 8 Ball today, shall we?

Question:

“Will I ever be able to go more than a day or two without removing superfluous hair from some area of my sorry old body?”

Answer:

“It is certain.”

Is this damned thing broke?

Well, I might as well ask while this thing is giving me answers on the far side of credibility.

“Will I be going on a lovely, long Caribbean Cougar Cruise this fall?”

Answer:

“Better not tell you now.”

That’s probably the best answer this thing’s had in a long time.

I have to admit I have been rather bummed out lately.  I feel as if I have failed at so many things I really wanted to be good at.  Right now I particularly feel like a bad mother.   Maybe I overindulged him.  Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so pissed off when he was 12 and I got a bill from the cable company for about $300 worth of hard core porn pay-per-view.  That’s one of the things that has to suck about being an only child (although when I was a child I would have been delighted if somehow my sisters would have gotten shipped off to Africa or Siberia or pretty much anywhere way far away from me where they couldn’t kick my ass, and guys couldn’t ask me for my phone number so they could call them.)  With an only child, everyone knows exactly who to blame for everything messed up or bizarre- from the unflushed, toilet paper-less mountain of feces in the toilet to the BB holes in the walls and ceilings.  Even though he denied it, I knew he was the purveyor of the pay-per-view porn, and it was so easy to prove.  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure this out:

1. Jerry is lucky to figure out how to use the remote to turn on the TV and change channels.  Anything beyond that, including operating the “guide” function, is quite over his head. 

2.  While I can navigate the cable menus with the remote with relative ease, I am not awake from 11PM-2AM, which is when said skin flicks were viewed, and I really have no use for flicks with titles like, “Hot Cheerleaders in Heat” or “Thunder Twats.”  If I were to be the video voyeur, there would have to be a lot more sausage in the titles for them to interest me.

Soooo, the only person in the house who understands the technology (how to access pay-per-view with the remote,) and is awake at such an unholy hour to view the ill-gotten smut, and has an interest in plotless girlie action would be???

Process of elimination?  The fact that the dirty viewing was all done on weekend nights when he had buddies staying over clinched the deal.

I still have pay-per-view disabled in my house, just in case by some weird Murphy’s Law-like corollary, Jerry would access it by mistake.    I know Jerry figuring out pay-per-view (or even accessing it by accident, which would be more likely) would be about as likely as 1000 monkeys banging on typewriters coming up with Webster’s Dictionary, but it would be my luck.

I need to find a site where I can virtually punch something.  Something to make me feel better about completely horribly sucking at everything. Online Frogger is good, but a bit frustrating because the aim is NOT to get the frog hit by a truck.

I guess I am just waiting for something else to remind me what a horrible mother I am.  Oh, yeah, I didn’t buy him those $100 pants he wanted when he was in 8th grade, or the big screen TV.  I made him fess up to his Dad when he was five years old and called me a b—h.  I didn’t staple a full body condom on him every time he walked out the door.

Then again I have to remember, the boy is now an adult and perfectly free to screw up all by himself.  Lord knows I screwed up just about everything, and freaking still do.

Stuck in a Retro Funk, Losing My Mind, and Bad Responses to Stress

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Suffice to say my life is insane.

Back in the day I would be using some coping strategies that unfortunately are forbidden to me in my cougardom.   My health and the vast array of meds that I have to take simply to remain breathing and above ground have pretty much made it impossible for me to: work until I fall over, and then drink until I forget everything.  My advanced age, sense of morality, aversion to guilt, general introversion, and fear of divers social diseases and/or emotional entanglements prevents me from seeking out the attentions of “friends with benefits,” so casual sex with near strangers is pretty much out as a stress reliever too.   What worked when I was 25 (and even what I wish would have worked when I was 25, i.e. casual sex, hell- even formal sex would be an improvement over none) will not work now, unless I want to wake up dead.  I’ve watched far too many episodes of Dr G and /or 1000 Ways to Die.  Although I know death is inevitable, and might even be preferable to some situations I’ve lived through, I don’t want to earn a Darwin Award in the process of dying.

I mean, who really wants a epitaph that says:

Here lies a feisty old tart/Who messed around with all the old farts/She partied and drank, the nasty old skank/Till the excitement exploded her heart

My idea of excitement is when I put my old Journey videos in the DVD player so I can drool over 30 year old visuals of Steve Perry.   That’s about all I can take.

Then again, the more I think about it,  it might not be too bad to come and go at the same time, except it may be a bit morbid for the other party involved.  I mean, what would the surviving partner do?  Call the squad or cut out the middle man and call the morgue directly? 

Reagan would have had enough sense to avoid such a situation, so that appears to be a good response.  I could also ask the Magic 8 Ball, whose response to the question, “Should I find myself a fine young boy toy?,” is “Outlook Not So Good.”

No shit.  If you’re going to go fishing, you have to have the appropriate bait.  I am genuinely afraid of what my sorry carcass would reel in.

Usually I don’t resort to gratituous self pity as a defense mechanism, but I’ve been sort of down lately.  Being busier than hell usually helps because it keeps my mind occupied and out of mischief for the most part, but the reality remains the same.

There are a few things, as usual, weighing on my mind that are dragging me down.

1. My illustrious offspring has spawned.  The spawning was NOT planned.  This is scary on many levels, especially knowing that he likely carries a boatload of dormant bad genes- just from my side of the family.   I shudder to speculate on the scary things that could be lying dormant from the sperm donor’s family. The poor child has the potential for some very scary looks, including red hair, extremely blond hair, curly hair, extreme shortness, and troll-like proportions to name a few.  The fact that he is neither married to the baby mama or gainfully employed is even more frightening.  The baby is due in late February/early March- the suckiest time of year to have a birthday.   No one will remember it, and even if they do, everyone’s still broke from Christmas, so the poor child will get shitty birthday presents if he/she gets any at all.  I know.  My birthday is 2-26.  One year all I got was a box of Whoppers and a quarter to spend in the vending machine at the Revco.  Most years everyone just forgets.

2. This means I’m officially a grandmother- not like with Jerry’s grandkids who everyone knows are way too old to actually be my grandkids.  I don’t care if they call me Grandma or Hey You Funky Lady- I don’t have a problem treating them like grandkids.  They’re remarkably normal kids, and the good part is that at the end of the day they go home, but most people can figure out that it’s highly unlikely that a 42 year old would actually have a thirteen year old grandson.  His daughter is 30.   I was lucky to have gotten busy the few times in my life that I’ve had the opportunity.  I sure as hell wasn’t getting any action when I was 12 or younger.  With Steve-o everyone can work out the logistics.  Your mother has had sex four times in the past 25 years – Guess which occasion resulted in spawning you?  This means if DNA proves the child to be his…I certainly can’t deny it.

 

 

Jerry of course has his own (highly annoying) responses to stress, i.e., seeing downing a 12 pack of Natties as a physical challenge and then getting hyper (normal people pass out, but no such luck) and trying to “clean.”  The problem with Jerry’s cleaning rampages is that they are uncannily like Mom’s manic cleaning rages of yesteryear.  I do not find this late night cleaning compulsion to be nostalgic in any sort of positive way.  I loathed being awakened to scrub the toilet in the middle of the night as a child, and I have no desire as a cougar-aged woman to unclog the dog hair from the vacuum cleaner at 9PM.  Just because Jerry thinks that housecleaning at bedtime is an appropriate and satisfying activity when I’ve been awake and busy since 4AM does not mean that my mind and/or body are going to agree with that.  He is fortunate I didn’t rip his face off, but I’ve either mellowed out in my cougardom or I was just too tired to put up much of a fight.  Option two is most likely.  Arguing with a drunk is just about as effective as nailing Jello to a tree anyway.

Note to self: remember to vacuum when he’s either sober or not home so he doesn’t attempt to use it and clog it up with those damned cigarette pack cellophanes he leaves all over creation.

My class reunion dinner is fast approaching, and I’ve already paid for it, so I am curious to see who shows up.  I sense a bit of nostalgia- and a desire to see a few old acquaintances- but an even more overwhelming sense of “stop and gawk,” which is the phenomenon here in beautiful Central Ohio that occurs when there’s a car wreck on the freeway. Oncoming traffic slows up simply because everyone wants to stop and gawk.   You don’t really want to look, but you really want to look.   I hope that for $30 it will be a nice dinner, anyway.  It will be an excuse to get out for a bit anyway.

 

 

Spare me from the ’80’s hair!

BIG TRUCK, LITTLE PENIS- and if I had a Big Dick, I Wouldn’t Need this Corvette

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“Now all they need is one (non magnetic, of course) for Corvette owners. Something to the effect of, “If I Had a Big Dick I Wouldn’t Need This Corvette”
These giant magnetic bumper stickers are ideal pranks to pull on truck owners.
I worked in Chevy dealerships, and very quickly learned to loathe Corvette owners.  Truck guys- even the ones with the jacked up and modified monstrosities- were never as obnoxious as Corvette owners.  I never encountered a group of automotive enthusiasts who are both cheap and incredibly fussy at the same time.  The attitude goes like this, “I want it perfect, I want it NOW, and what’s my discount?”
When I had the authority to set the Corvette owners’ “discount,” it was usually something like list + 50, which means regular retail plus 50% of regular retail.  So if list price was $100, I would quote them $150.  They got a pretty hefty surcharge for being a royal pompous pain in my ass.
Fussy owners in the automotive fancy are nothing new.  I have dealt with truck owners (usually not too terrible) including Land Cruiser enthusiasts, who, while fussy, were some of my favorites to deal with.  The major difference between Land Cruiser owners and Corvette owners is that a Land Cruiser owner wants it perfect and wants it NOW, AND is willing to pay for “perfect” and “NOW.”  I always loved Land Cruiser owners when I worked in Toyota dealerships.  They’re fussy and demanding, yes, but they don’t mind paying for the privilege.
I have to state that yes, there are guys who compensate for their tiny johnsons with excessive horsepower.  I’ve seen it, and it isn’t pretty.  I really could care less how big your truck is if you’re the poster child for ED,and/or if you are a tightwad, and/or your hair is held on with double faced tape.  Show me a guy who drives a Prius and isn’t self conscious about it, and he’s probably quite comfortable in his masculinity.  Then again, so are the lesbians who don’t shave their legs and have stopped using soap.  They are really comfortable in their truckers’ wallets and their masculinity.  That’s a pretty scary crowd too, especially when the technicians make commentary on the pit hair of the one wearing the tank top.  I didn’t need to know that “she”? has longer pit hair than all three technicians combined.  TMI.  Acck.  Excessive body hair is bad enough on men.  It’s positively revolting on women.
 

PRANK SIGN: CONSERVE toilet paper

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“I have to say I enjoy this sign, especially considering the amount of TP that magically disappears in my house. “
These hilarious and rude prank signs are sure to stop people in their tracks!
I wonder if I got a few of these and posted them in fast food bathrooms shitters if anyone would read and heed. 
I seriously doubt it.  Then again, who were those nut jobs who were entreating the entire world to forgo the use of toilet paper in favor of using reusable cloths?  There’s a reason why most people in the Western world refuse to use cloth diapers, and it’s the same reason why most people in the Western world aren’t going to start washing out their butt wipes any time soon.  Nobody wants to touch shit- with the exception of certain sicko fetishists. 
I don’t consider myself to be a militant environmentalist.  For the most part the greenies are annoying and hypocritical (it’s really easy to be eco-friendly when you have loads of cash and other people to do your dirty work for you) and many of their supposed “eco-friendly” practices are either harmful to the environment or don’t make a damned bit of difference.  Some conservation practices are prudent and save money, such as driving a fuel efficient car, freezing meals ahead, planting a home garden and other practical projects that involve reducing and reusing existing resources, but toilet paper?  Granted it’s not necessary to use half a roll every time you drop a deuce, but come on.
Should I impose a three square limit?  Oh, the humanity.
Oh, the fudged undies…

I Thought I’d Have a Bit More Time, and Other Famous Last Thoughts

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I knew it would happen eventually.  I hoped for more time, not so much for me, but for the illustrious POMC to finish school and to already be gainfully employed and independent from the parental units before informing me that I am soon to be a grandmother.  Really.

I also hoped that he would be married to the baby mama at that point too, but at least he didn’t fertilize either Jezebel or Psycho Chick (his two previous girlfriends) and he’s been in a fairly stable relationship with the baby mama.

Marriage and employment aside, this potential train wreck could be a lot worse.

I can’t say that I’m angry.  I’m not angry.  I’ve been there.  Steve-o wasn’t planned either.  Life happens and life is messy with all the details and you have to work your way through.  Having a child at age 20 (and she’s 18 for heaven’s sake) is no easy endeavor.  Far be it from me to add fuel to the fire and make a hard situation even more difficult.  Hearing my critique and commentary isn’t going to make anything better. No sense in shutting the barn door once the horse is already out.  Steve-o at least wants to be a man and be a dad to his child- and I will do whatever I can to back him up with that.  He’s seen too many of his friends in situations where their babies’ mothers don’t want them around and one thing Steve-o does want is for his kid to have a mom and a dad and for him to actively participate in his family’s life.  I hope he means what he says, and I think he does.  After all, his sperm donor wasn’t particularly interested in him.  He knows what it’s like.  The thought of his own child having a dad who doesn’t care is particularly repulsive to him- as it should be.

Dad is pissed.  Dad will be pissed for a few more days until he finally realizes the futility of attempting to shut the barn door and then he will come around.  His desire to see and have contact with his first great-grandchild will win out.   I do think the whole parenting dimension will make it more challenging for Steve-o to finish school and make something of himself, but it will no means be impossible.  Steve-o does have an incredible talent for doing what he needs to do when he really wants to do it.  Will he care enough about his offspring to do so?  Only time will tell, but he certainly doesn’t need my cynicism and despondency to get in his way.

I was sort of surprised at Mom’s reaction.  She wasn’t thrilled, but she wasn’t nearly as pissy as Dad.   I know she’s pissed at Steve-o for not keeping his business in his pants, but I don’t think she’s completely disappointed at the prospect of a new baby.  Life is life and things happen for a reason.  Some people try and try to conceive and can’t- or some people, like me, could only have one child.

Of course, in my elderly cougardom the only thing keeping me from rehydration via party keg is that alcohol wreaks havoc with my blood sugar and with my blood pressure meds.  I am thankful in a dark sort of way that I am not going to have to endure all the pregnancy discomforts- a sort of  “better thee than me” scenario.  I already have vintage stretch marks and a lovely c-section scar (recently accompanied by its parallel hysterectomy scar)  that haven’t gone anywhere in 20+ years.  Even if I still had the necessary equipment I am way too old for that noise.  I am going to refrain from sharing the Murphy’s Law as it Pertains to the Childbirth from Hell story with them.  Some things are better left unshared, especially with a very young couple that has just been enlightened as to the existence of a third party.

I’ll have to be the poor sucker out there scouting about for baby clothes and other stuff they’re going to need.  At least I am not the one having to go through the endless succession of prenatal visits, weight gain, having to pee every ten minutes, and of course, the Birth Experience which she is going to want to be heavily medicated for, especially if their baby weighs almost 10# like Steve-o did.  She will want to rip off his nuts.

Lord have mercy.  They are going to need it.