A Healthy Dose of Irony, Harmony In the Dissonance, and Dennis Rodman

November 6, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Hell, Dick Nixon was a freaking paragon of virtue compared to the current squatter in the Oval Office!

I should have gotten a pic of it, but to my delight, I saw one of these old stickers firmly planted on a Toyota Venza in the Costco parking lot today. I immediately saw the irony and found it hilarious- the way I took it is that Dick Nixon and company would be a damned sight better than the train wreck of a presidential administration that’s currently defiling the White House.

I know we’re in real trouble when I start seeing these on cars:

I bet Jimmy Carter has already sent Obama a heartfelt thank-you card. If he hasn’t, he should. I have a suggestion:

History will have to be kinder to Jimmy Carter after Obama – as well as Clinton, Nixon, LBJ, Harding, and even Woodrow Wilson- after Obama gets done defiling the office.

I love those sappy old Victorian cards.

Just what I always wanted- disembodied hearts- in the mail!

I know I don’t see things the way the rest of the world does most of the time. In the past my alternate perception caused me quite a bit of cognitive dissonance, though as I grow older and ostensibly, wiser, I’m discovering three disturbing truths: I’m OK, the rest of the world is screwed up, and I can’t change that.

It really doesn’t help to know when you’re right if everyone else is hell bent on being wrong. I might try to explain to the lemmings why following everyone else over the cliff is a bad idea, but they’ll dive right over it anyway.

That’s not to say that I’m always right or that I’m infallible. I’m certainly fallible, and I make a fair share of mistakes. The bad part of that is I usually screw up when I go against my better judgment and follow the crowd anyway.

Ultimately history is written not by who was right, but by the winners. Popular opinion may win out today, but in the long run? Hindsight is 20/20.

I find it interesting that one of the big “kid arguments” is, “But Mom, everyone else is doing it!” Just because everyone else is doing it doesn’t make it right or good. Sometimes what the rest of the crowd is doing is funny, though.

When he was 7 or 8 or so, Steve-o begged me and begged me for a Dennis Rodman ~~doll~~ action figure (if it’s for a boy you can never call it a doll, it’s always an action figure, even though a girl would refer to it as a doll) and I got it for him, interchangeable heads and all, against my better judgment. I think that was the sickest toy I was ever conned into buying, even including having his ear pierced and getting him the entire series of DOOM games. Steve-o didn’t stay interested in it for long, (mostly because his friends mocked him for playing with a doll.) I think eventually poor Dennis and both of his heads fell victim to either Clara or Lilo’s early adult/final puppy stage compulsion to chew up things.

It was probably Lilo. She still destroys her toys, and she’s 10 years old. Clara isn’t nearly as enamored of destroying stuff- unless it’s a bone with peanut butter in it.

Why Dennis Rodman reminds me of Obama, I’ll never know, but I sort of like the concept of popping off and changing out his action figure’s head, for what it’s worth. Maybe somewhere there’s a sane head that can replace Obama’s goofy one? Just pop off the goofy one and pop on the rational one?

One Dog Down the Cat Hole, and One Against the Thugocracy

October 15, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

It’s easy for me to forget that Lucy is substantially smaller than the other two dogs. I thought that since Lucy has a rather large head for her size, that she was too large for the cat hole. I have since realized that Fanny can get through a smaller hole than previously thought possible, and Lucy can get through a much smaller hole than I’d ever imagined.

Let me explain the logic behind the cat hole.

The New Improved Cat Hole: Just big enough for 17# Fanny to fit through…and nothing bigger- I hope!

Dogs absolutely lust over cat food, and most dogs are inexplicably enamored of snacking on cat shit as well. Neither cat food (too high in fat and protein for a dog’s metabolism) nor cat shit (well, it’s shit, ’nuff said) is healthy for dogs to consume in any kind of quantity. It’s sort of like humans living on bacon and candy- it might taste good at the moment, but it’s just plain unhealthy, and such a diet can lead to serious disease. Dogs are not the best arbiters of healthy eating, and they really shouldn’t be left to free-forage. As George Carlin once wisely pointed out regarding “gourmet” cat food, “How many gourmets lick their ass?”

Since we have four cats and three dogs, the cats need a safe place to hide when the dogs get on their nerves, as well as a safe place to eat and crap. The dogs need to be kept out of cat food and kept out of cat shit. In our house, the dog-free zone is the basement. There’s a roughly cat-sized hole cut in the basement door that (in theory) keeps dogs out while letting cats move freely in and out.

Big Fat Fanny- that’s what I get for naming the cat while listening to Queen. The dreadful 70’s linoleum- not really my choice.

The original oversize cat hole worked just fine for Clara and Lilo, who have long since realized that they aren’t going to get to go downstairs to munch. Clara is slender but even so, she’s still 65#. Lilo is about 55#, and not terribly motivated to pursue anything that doesn’t afford her easy access. Lucy, at a comparatively tiny 45#, however, decided to use her thick skull to worm her way through the cat hole.

The cat hole was a bit oversize because Fanny is a bit oversize. Our cats range in size from 4 1/2# Jezebel to 17# Fanny. Isabel is just slightly bigger than Jezebel at right around 5#, and F.B. is about 8#. I have four cats and only one is “normal” sized. Go figure, and I have no idea why the two black ones are so tiny. Jezebel eats more than any of the other cats, but she’s still the smallest. Her (Jezebel’s) feral relatives that live on the body shop lot are all petite cats as well. Perhaps city cats have some sort of advantage in smaller size vs. farm cats who tend to be large like Fanny. Isabel and Jezebel were both city ferals at one time. Fanny was from out in farm country, and I have no idea where F.B. came from before we took her in when her first owner died.

As long as Fanny fits, and Lucy keeps from ramming it, the reduced size cat hole should keep cats and dogs in their proper places.

If Obama gets his way, the rest of the country will be just like Detroit.

I’ve tried to keep my mouth somewhat shut about the political rancor and just plain stupidity going on in Washington right now, but I can’t understand why there are still dimwits out there who don’t get it about Obama. Including Jerry’s Dad, the former Klan member.

“Take a shower!” or was that “White powder?” Ass pilot.

I can’t say I condone the Klan, but frankly I’m tired of any racial or ethnic group demanding preferential treatment. The white supremacists are just as stupid as the Al Sharptons and Jesse Jacksons and Muslim extremist crazies of the world, believe that. But Jerry’s Dad seems to have done a 180° to think Obama’s the best thing ever, and I really don’t understand why or how he would. Maybe he’s gone senile and he’s feeling guilty for 70+ years of unabashed racism? Or maybe he’s just batshit crazy. I tend to believe suggestion #2.

This guy is a nut, too.

The thing is, I can feel bad over injustices committed against black people – or any other oppressed group-in the past without feeling a need to offer a free pass to Obama’s present ineptitude, incompetence and malice. Equal opportunity includes the obligation to own up to your own epic failures. If you can’t run with the big dogs, I don’t care what color, gender, ethnicity or whatever you are. Stay the flying flip on the porch.

Instead of working together with others in government toward responsible leadership, Obama has established a thugocracy- a culture in which there is one central premise: that big government knows what’s good for you, and we’ll take what you have by force, ostensibly in the name of “the common good.” In reality it is about big government feeding itself at the cost of those who work, produce and create. Communism / socialism didn’t work in the (former) Soviet Union and it doesn’t work now.

I don’t know who came up with this summary but it’s pretty good:

Socialism: Moochers electing looters to steal from producers.

Joy and rapture. Welfare day at Walmart. I think I’ll wait until the second week of the month to do my shopping.

I’m just hoping Lucy doesn’t get downstairs to dine on the magical dog candy again.

I Don’t Wanna Talk About It (But I Will Anyway,) and I Love Lucy

October 2, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Lucy is clearly not a Belgian Malinois (most likely Bulldog and Beagle) but as Mick Jagger once sang: “You can’t always get what you want /But if you try sometimes /You just might find /You get what you need…”

Even considering the insight of the Rolling Stones, I didn’t really need a third dog. Even so, I was surprised it took Jerry from May to September to end up with another dog. I wanted another Malinois for Miss Clara to mentor, (and I still do) but when a stray dog (almost) got into it with one of the ankle biters at the campground over table scraps, Jerry had to intervene, and rightfully so. I couldn’t say no to that face and those eyes.

Either we took Lucy with us, or she’d have ended up with an ass full of buck shot, as the owner of the ankle biter in question would not hesitate to do it. It was a no-brainer. We took Sheena, messed up as she was, because she needed a home and we had a space. Lucy, even though I have little to no experience with either bully breeds or hounds, has a lot more going for her than poor Sheena did.

This is a young female Malinois- not Lucy!

Unlike Sheena, Lucy can hear. Lucy also has teeth. She has a bit of an underbite, (normal for Bulldogs) but she still has 42 sturdy, clean, white teeth. She’s also young (about a year, according to the Vet) and to our shock, had already been spayed. I feel bad that she was put under anesthetic and cut on only to find out she’d already been spayed, but how were we to know? In spite of undergoing what proved to be an unneeded surgery, she’s in impeccable health- aside from having to lose a pound or two from her incessant moochings at the campground. (Who can resist those eyes and that face?) She should get down to a proper weight now that she’s on Diet Plate with Lilo and eating pretty much just dog food. She also has a microchip and tags now, should she manage to wander off from us.

I don’t know why anyone would bother to spay a dog and then not microchip her, or bother to put a collar and tags on her, but that’s not my call. Against my first instincts, I love this weird looking little dog, even though she waddles when she walks and drools in her sleep. Even the cats are chumming up to her and kissing on her, (Jezebel especially loves dogs) which makes me wonder if she really went off on the ankle biter, or that if the ankle biter’s owners were just paranoid that she was hanging around and mooching. Then again, in our house the cats don’t compete with the dogs for food. The cats eat in a dog-free area, otherwise the cats wouldn’t get to eat at all. As far as competing with the other dogs, Clara and Lilo are both a lot bigger than Lucy, and she strikes me as being smart enough not to pick a fight with either one of them.

I’m starting to think my tits have mistaken themselves for migratory birds, as they have moved so far south. I know my grandmother warned me when I was 13 that I should always wear a sturdy bra, and for the most part I have heeded her advice, but the effects of gravity, like those of other forces associated with entropy, are inevitable.

Aging sucks, especially when it challenges your deeply held belief that it won’t happen to you.

I’ve been trying to avoid the political landscape as that whole scene is just plain depressing. I knew what a piece of work our illegitimate president was before he cheated himself into office the first time. I’m not at all surprised by what’s going on, even though it’s puzzling to me why the illegitimate fraud squatting in the White House hasn’t been impeached, removed and deported by now.

-Apparently playing the race card can still get you very far even with no experience, talent or ability to cooperate with others, and apparently not enough people care that you are illegitimate and lacking any sort of merit, if you can claim a favored minority status- and that makes my blood boil.

Anyway, I told myself I would avoid political tangents today so I am trying very hard not to. The bad part about trying to avoid doing something is that if you avoid it too hard you step right into it, sort of like when I try to go out in the back yard and try not to step in dog shit. Usually when I’m hell bent on avoiding dog shit is exactly when I step in it.

Oh, the parallels between stepping in dog shit and the illegitimate, destructive and dangerous Obama administration. The only difference is that dog shit washes off.

Another Dog? Yes I’m Nuts, and More Obvious Truths

July 17, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I am surprised that I’ve been 2 1/2 months with only two dogs. Clara and Lilo don’t seem to mind one bit, as they have been constant companions for the better part of a decade, but I know what I’m thinking in the back of my head, and what Jerry’s thinking in the front of his head. Our dogs are treated better than most people’s kids, but they still are working girls. They don’t just look cute and eat high dollar dog food. They are our home security. In this day and age I don’t want to be dog-less. It’s hard enough to sleep at night as it is.

I am more than mindful of the fact that a dog’s lifespan (ideally) is about 15 years, though a large dog’s lifespan can be shorter than that. Sheena was only about seven when she died, although Sheena had Issues that Clara and Lilo don’t have.

Sheena’s laundry list of health problems finally caught up with her- at only seven years old.

Clara’s 11. Lilo’s 10. Both of them are in good health, but they are not young dogs by anyone’s standards.

Kayla (right) at age 14, Clara (left) at age 2

Kayla was almost 16 when she passed, which is almost unheard of for a large GSD. We were given the responsibility to care for Kayla in her retirement (she was 11) and were told, “they don’t live much past 12.” Kayla was an effective security dog up until the last six months of so of her life- after she had already had Clara well-trained. I know that Kayla’s lifespan is the exception rather than the rule. Heidi (also a GSD) didn’t “live much past 12. ” She was 12 when she passed-but Heidi had some of the same issues Sheena did. I almost want to avoid GSDs completely because of all the health problems they’re known to harbor, unless I luck upon another Bavarian import like Kayla. Even though Kayla was from a good bloodline and enjoyed good health for almost 15 of her nearly 16 years, most GSDs are not that fortunate.

To make the whole dog-finding process more complex, I really want a Belgian Malinois, or barring that, at least a Malinois/GSD mix. I’m probably going to have to spend $800-$1000 to get the dog I really want, and I will probably have to make a substantial road trip to boot. I’m willing to do that for the right dog, but if I can find a shelter dog that fits the bill, better yet.

Here’s what I’m looking for- a young female Malinois. 16 weeks to 2 years would be ideal- the younger the better.

I have time, and I’d rather keep a lookout for suitable shelter dogs or rescues, but Jerry is Jerry. He can procure or find just about anything that exists. The girls need a protégé.

I’ve never had a male dog, and don’t particularly want one, as the girls tend to have fewer health problems (when spayed) and longer lifespans. That, and I really can’t deal with dogs that hump people, and that hump other dogs, or unfortunate petite black cats. I know not all males are humpers (and some females oddly enough, are) but the visual of Jerry’s Mom’s weirdo odd-eyed Shih-Tzu humping poor Isabel is burned into my retinas. That might not be entirely fair, as ankle-biters are strange anyway. As far as I’m concerned, a dog should be at least 50#, and I have a strong preference for the “protection” breeds. They seem to be more intuitive and intelligent than the average ankle-biter.

When anyone is “more equal” by merit of their race, gender, behavior choices, et cetera, there is no equality and no justice.

I don’t believe in the concept of retribution when it is not directed toward the original wrongdoer. I understand that people of certain races were targeted for unfair treatment in the past, up to and including torture, lynchings and genocide. The problem is that those wrongs are not “made right” today by denying justice simply because a person is of a certain race or ethnic group.

In order for justice to be just it has to be colorblind- not politically correct or expedient for certain “more equal” pigs.

If someone breaks into my house and threatens me and I am in fear of my life, I’m going to blow his/her head off and I’m not really going to care if that person is black, white, green, straight, gay, bi or furry. I have to agree with the Zimmerman acquittal for that reason. I have a right to defend myself if I am being attacked and am in fear of my life. I shouldn’t have to think twice because my attacker belongs to a “protected” group, like the Al Sharptons and Obamas and other race baiters of the world want us to believe.

Should black people be able to perpetrate crime against white people with impunity because some black people were victimized by white people in the past? Obviously the race baiters would scream bloody murder should anyone suggest the opposite scenario, (and they do even when it’s not warranted) but why should crimes perpetrated by ANYONE get a pass? Deeper yet, why should any person have to forfeit his/her right to self defense when he/she is being threatened by a perpetrator of any color? The Trayvon Martin issue was conveniently crafted into a racial issue- when the real issue was the right of self defense.

It seems like a white person using a white toilet is enough to get the race baiters going. It’s reverse racism and it’s just as ugly regardless of who’s being racist toward whom.

To those who are protesting the Zimmerman acquittal, perhaps the real issue is crime- and remembering that in this country, much to Obama and Al Sharpton’s chagrin- citizens still do have the right to defend themselves.

The Second Amendment is crucial to the preservation of American freedom…which is why Obama and others who are anti-freedom can’t stand it.

Then again, the best way to know if a public policy is wrong- and/or in support of the criminal element- is if Obama supports it. That’s why he’s all for gun control, abortion, punitive taxation on commerce, and letting every third world terrorist nut job in the country. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is trying to set us up for a takeover by his friends in the terrorist world.

It’s long past time for this country to get beyond race and start addressing the entitlement culture and the nanny state, which are the real roots of both poverty and crime.

Today is a New Day, the Hardest Things to Do, and More Victorian Post Mortems

May 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

As much as I dreaded what I had to do last night, I have an odd sense of peace about it. Sheena’s not suffering anymore. Even until the end she was herself- conscious, aware, but trapped in a body that couldn’t work right anymore. She lost the use of her back legs Wednesday afternoon. All we could do for her until the vet could come last night was to try to keep her clean and offer her water as she wanted it (she was not interested in food.)

I know all too well the scientific/medical reasons for Sheena’s rapid decline. She’d had mammary growths removed twice. The first time I didn’t send out for pathology, (there is only one veterinary pathology lab in Ohio, at Ohio State, and it’s expensive and time consuming to get results) but the second time I did, and the lab said those were benign, but then the growths came back with a vengeance. More than likely- at least the third go-round, anyway- it was mammary cancer, which can be virulent and spreads quickly in dogs. By the time I had noticed the mammary growths again (round 3) there were growths in her “armpits” or more accurately, under her forelegs, (lymph nodes abide there in dogs, just as they do in humans) and I decided that I would not subject her to more surgery. If anyone can gain anything from this experience it is that spaying dogs early can help prevent mammary cancer. Sheena had several litters of pups before we found her. We had her spayed, but spaying a 5 year old who’s had several litters doesn’t prevent cancer as effectively as spaying before the first heat.

Sheena didn’t have a good luck of the draw. She was deaf. She was without a doubt inbred. She had severe HD to the point of pretty much not having hip sockets at all. Her teeth were a disaster from the cage biting. Her physical coordination was worse than mine. By all accounts, Sheena was “defective merchandise.” But she was my dog, and she had a heart of gold. Part of me wanted to end her suffering, but another part of me finds it hard to let her go.

Clara and Lilo know where she’s buried. The two of them (they are both older than Sheena was) are still in good health, for which I am thankful. Clara and Lilo have always been close, but as soon as they figured out Sheena was dying they have been almost joined at the hip. Lilo has been carrying Sheena’s favorite toys around, and Clara has been rolling in the places that still must smell like her. Dogs grieve, too.

Today is a new day, but saying goodbye to a friend is always one of the hardest things to do. It’s got to be the hardest thing about life with dogs and cats. They just don’t live that long. For me, while it’s painful to say goodbye, it’s even more painful and empty to choose not to share life with dogs and cats. No, I am not looking for another #3- I think I’ll let Clara and Lilo enjoy things with just two dogs. I have four cats, after all.

The problem is, I know those are the famous last words. If I know Jerry, we will be back to three dogs within the month.

While I’m in the realm of the macabre, and still feeling a bit melancholy, I’ve found a few more of everyone’s favorites: Victorian-era post mortem pics. Yeah, I know it’s creepy, but as popular as these things are I can’t be the only one who finds them grotesquely fascinating.

I think this one was a mob hit- got the entire family, which was sort of sick.

This one is more tragic than anything. It’s bad enough these twins were likely stillborn, but for someone to want $756 for the original print?

This one sort of leads me to wonder if this child was OD’d on one of the many patent medicines of the day- that contained opium and alcohol?

I bet it happened a lot more than was ever found out.

From the unnatural position of the legs and arms, I almost thought this was a kid’s doll,

but then in Victorian times nobody would have wasted an expensive photograph on a doll.

Belling the Cat, Parents and Children, and the Virtual Graveyard

May 1, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Jezebel is not happy with me this morning. Not at all. But I did level the playing field between her and Fanny.

Cats generally despise collars, and it takes awhile for them to get used to them. Isabel never would wear a collar. She was too good at removing them, and at some point several years ago I gave up. Isabel’s almost 15 years old. She has no interest in actually going outside anyway, so collaring and belling her is sort of pointless. Miz Izz is quite content to lounge in the window sill, enjoying the climate control as she watches the birds and other little critters of nature. She didn’t get to be an old fossil by being stupid. F.B. is the same way- I’ve never tried collaring F.B., and it probably wouldn’t make much sense because she is even less interested in the great outdoors than Miz Izz. F.B. has got to be the most sanguine cat on earth.

I put a collar, tag and bell on Fanny after her brief, unauthorized forays out in the great wide open. Both times I found her large, frightened carcass under the dump truck on the body shop lot. At least with the bell on, I have a chance of hearing Fanny if she tries to sneak out the door.

Jezebel spent a good portion of the evening trying to run away from the bell. Hopefully by tonight she will realize the bell’s attached, and hopefully she will begin to understand the more you move the more noise it makes. I’m hoping she will chill some, and at least partially forgive me. I’d put a collar on her much earlier to get her used to wearing one, but she is so tiny that I have the collar adjusted almost as small as it will go as it is. I thought about those teeny collars for ferrets or the collars for ankle biter dogs, but cat collars are specifically made so if a cat gets tangled and is dangling from something the collar will release before the cat is asphyxiated.

Jezebel doesn’t really try to get outside, but she does torment Fanny every chance she gets. Fanny- all 17# of her- is a wide target. Fanny’s not only slow, she has a bell on to boot. So Jezebel, being young, lithe, fast and silent, can stalk and ambush poor fat Fanny with impunity. Even though Fanny is about 3-4 times as large as Jezebel, Fanny is a poor fighter and has a hard time defending herself, especially when Jezebel wraps herself around Fanny’s neck and starts in with the rabbit kicks.

So I have to try to make it fair. Even though I know, life is not fair, and some things really suck no matter what you do.

Sheena is not much longer for this world, and in some ways it breaks my heart. I scheduled the mobile vet to come to our house tomorrow (if she’s still with us then) to put her down. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, but she’s gotten to the point where she doesn’t want to eat, and isn’t enjoying being a dog anymore. She’s actively dying at this point, and it’s not right to let her suffer.

In some ways I wish we could have done more for her, but she was so ill-treated and in such poor health when we found her, that there’s only so much you can do. She has had numerous issues with mobility from the beginning with the severe HD, but now the mammary growths have come back with a vengeance, and they are everywhere. She is barely able to stand and walk and it’s getting hard for her to breathe. I’m glad I got through to the mobile vet. I wish he could have made it out today but tomorrow’s the soonest I could get. Although Sheena has never had problems with going the vet, let’s face it, she’s not going to have an easy time getting in the car to begin with, and even worse, it’s not easy to load 75# of dead dog back in the car. I took Heidi to our regular vet when we had to let her go, which I preferred in a way, because we love our vet, but it’s not a pleasant 40 mile road trip back home knowing you have a dead dog in the trunk that you’re going to have to both unload and help bury. It was awful enough with Heidi, and she only weighed about 60#.

I can’t help it, and I know it’s macabre, but there’s something about transporting a dead body (even a dog’s) in the trunk that reminds me of the movie Goodfellas.

I really don’t want to do that again.

We had a mobile vet come out when Kayla was dying. I think it’s the same guy who came out with Kayla. I hope so, because he was very understanding. Kayla was a good 90# when she died. I could not lift her by myself. It might sound cruel, but we laid her out on a large blanket before the vet started in with the chemicals, so we could sort of roll her up as if she were in a hammock- so we could carry her outside and lower her into her grave. I know it sucks, but even in the mechanics of death, someone still has to think about the logistics. We will have to do the same thing with Sheena. I can go on and on about how it sucks that we outlive dogs (and Sheena’s probably only about 7 or 8, which really sucks) but you can’t change reality.

I think most people have a sort of love/hate relationship with their parents to some degree, but the older I get the more I appreciate my parents and their work ethic and old-school values. They did the best they could, especially considering Mom is bi-polar, and no matter how much Dad worked, it never seemed like there was enough money to get by. I could barely afford one child, let alone three, and Steve-o (thank God) had very few illnesses or medical issues. I do think it a bit creepy last Sunday, out of the clear blue sky, Mom starts apologizing to me for my trainwreck of a childhood.

What Mom doesn’t get, is that even had I been born into a family with every possible material advantage, it wouldn’t have changed my overall reality much. I might not have been cursed with an uncontrolled, sadistic older sibling. I might have worn better clothes, and might have had new glasses when I needed them. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten rheumatic fever, or maybe I would have gotten a more extensive formal education, but the fact is that in the 1970s, nobody knew how to deal with people who are wired like me. Hyperlexia only occurs in about 1 in 50,000 children, and 75% of those are male. Nobody knew what to do with my precocious reading, and nobody knew that it went along with constant anxiety, poor motor skills, abysmal social aptitude, and weak health.

High fashion, no. High IQ, well, intellect does have its advantages.

Mom did the best she could with what she was given, and no apology was ever necessary. After all, I’m not a correctional institute inmate, I’ve managed to be gainfully employed, and I’m not a serial killer. I went to school with people who fared much worse in the long run than I did, and they were given many advantages I could only have dreamed of.

Perhaps had I been given every “advantage” I might not have had the fortitude to work for anything or appreciate anything. Perhaps scarcity and adversity are good for the soul, even though neither of these are fun to endure.

The older I get, the more I believe the great theologian/philosopher Mick Jagger has it right:

“You can’t always get what you want

You can’t always get what you want

You can try sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need-“

Ghosts of the Machines, and Horse Meat in the Dog Food

March 26, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

The town where I grew up was doomed. It became a falling behemoth even before I understood that the world around me was crumbling beneath my feet, and a once prosperous town had faded into ignonimy, becoming known more as a haven for welfare slackers and a hotbed of heroin activity than as an industrial powerhouse.

I grew up amidst the towering smoke stacks, the perpetually clanging, moving factories, and with the constant sounds of the trains- the rhythmic clack-clack, the dull roar of the diesel engines, and the mournful braying of the whistles. The trains were the unwitting instruments playing the muted symphony of the night, coming from anywhere, going to nowhere- everywhere and nowhere all at the same time- as if in defiance of the laws of time and space.

When I was very young the air was dirty. On the rare days where there was no wind, a thick stagnant gray haze hung in the air like a pall. There was a pervasive slimy, smoky film that coated windows and adhered to curtains and windowsills should one dare to open the windows. Should the wind blow from the southwest, (which happens often in summer) one would get a foul whiff of the various odors of rendering and not-so-fresh flesh emanating from the Ken-L-Ration dog food factory (believe it or not, a subsidiary of Quaker Oats.)

This was an imposing, windowless facility where horses were once slaughtered, transformed into a pasty, meaty muck, (hooves, ears, and shall we say, all the “not fit for human consumption” bits included) and packed into tin cans with bright, colorful labels that reassured dog owners that this horse paste was 100% Balanced Nutrition for Your Dog!

Eh, so it’s canned dog food.

At least they were straight about what was in it. Unlike the UK lasagna.

You don’t want to know what a “by-product” is. Suffice to say that a “meat by-product” in the 1950s could be anything from roadkill, to dead livestock, to lips and assholes.

Then there was the Marion Power Shovel, whose last great hurrah was building the crawler that moved the space shuttle. In its heyday the Power Shovel complex cut a five-mile long stretch along the west end of town. Now most of the buildings have been demolished. A few have been repurposed as either warehouses or trucking depots. The skeletons of the massive outdoor cranes that once moved parts of power shovels and other large machines down the assembly line still stand as silent witnesses to a time when the survival of the free world hinged upon the industrial might of America. Now the existence of either the “free world” or the “might of America” is decaying and becoming more and more a distant memory, just like those abandoned factories.

By 1980, the industrial machine that had functioned so mightily- for a hundred years- collapsed upon itself.

I can name a plethora of reasons why half the population was gone in four years, with three-quarters of the factories either having gone out of business entirely, relocating to the southern right-to-work states, or relocating to foreign countries. I can say the fall was brought on by union greed, or excessive taxation and regulation, or the changes in the world economy, or the cost of energy, but to be honest it wasn’t any one factor that led to the fall, but the perfect storm that brewed when all of the above converged.

Now my home town is little more than a crumbling, dead monument to the industrial revolution, long since passed by, and the only constant is the sound of the trains, still everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

That, and it was once the home of President Harding. Harding is much maligned among many historians. He was a tomcat, he had shady friends, and for a time he was a card carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan. But, to his credit, he did keep the budget balanced, and he was well-liked during his term of office. He was so well-liked right after he died that school kids saved up their pennies and dimes and people raised money to build him a memorial that is only slightly less opulent than the Washington, Lincoln and Jefferson monuments.

The Harding Memorial is rather expansive, and very cool to visit- if you can find it. It’s on Ohio 423, on the south side of town, on the east side of the road.

Simply Enchanting, Of Rainy Days and Melancholy

March 18, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

There’s something about days like today- cold, heavily overcast, with torrential rain, that makes me wish I could stay home in bed. When I was working out this morning and had done my laps in the pool, I didn’t want to leave the hot tub. For a fleeting moment I thought about how nice it would be to say screw it all and just plain not do anything today- or do what I want to on my own time. Until I remembered all the crap I absolutely have to do today that can’t just be blown off, that is.

This picture reminds me of the times I spent wandering the railroad tracks that went past my grandparents’ house. Technically we kids were not supposed to go anywhere near the railroad tracks, as they were live and in use until they were pulled up some time in 1983 or so, but there were two irresistable lures that made the tracks worth the possibility of encountering an oncoming train, and/or being eaten alive by the local insect life. As far as oncoming trains, one could generally hear and see them in more than sufficient time to get clear. The bugs were another story. The ground around the tracks was swampy and there were plenty of sources of stagnant water for mosquitos to breed in. The open sewage creek that ran a few yards south down in the ditch alongside the tracks could be a source of foul odor in high summer, and it was positively rancid when the water levels in the creek got low and the wind blew in the wrong direction. There was a reason why Dad freaked out when he found us floating paper boats in the creek. We had already figured out we were floating our boats in an open air toilet when we saw the dookie floating in in the creek. Sometimes there was toilet paper and feminine hygiene items too. He didn’t have to warn us “not to touch the water.” Sometimes the dookie made it downstream faster than the boats.

Railroad spikes were worth fifty cents apiece to the right buyer, (if you could find one who didn’t ask questions as to how you got railroad spikes to begin with) which was a small fortune for a kid back then. There were bushels and bushels of black raspberries to be had (in season) and they were well within reach. Even so, while picking berries, one still had to be wary of both poison ivy and bugs.

These were actually worth some money in 1974- don’t know if they’re worth anything today.

Probably the one time I can remember getting a good thrashing from Dad instead of just having to deal with Mom breaking wooden paddles on my ill-fated fanny, was when my sister and I (not the sadistic one) decided to take a big gym bag down to the tracks and fill it up with spikes. Never mind she was six, I was five, and we were both small for our respective ages. We loaded this gym bag down until we could barely carry it with all the spikes in it. It was a good eighth of a mile from the tracks to our house, and in order to get to the house from the tracks we had to wander by the whole neighborhood lugging this thing.

Dad’s friends had spotted us, and he had gotten numerous phone calls before we were even close to getting home. Back then a kid couldn’t cut a popcorn fart without the whole neighborhood knowing about it. He was waiting to tan our hides the minute we dragged the spikes in the door.

Back in the day no one would hesitate to narc on other people’s kids, and there was no mollycoddling – or mercy- when it came time for the punishment. When punishment was administered, the neighbors didn’t hear a thing. If nothing was broken or bleeding and they couldn’t discern any flaming injuries when your parents were done with you, they figured justice had been served and that was the end of it.

We generally got away with the raspberries, though.

The raspberries went when the railroad pulled up the tracks. It seems as if all the weeds and garbage have come back to over grow the track bed, but the last time I went wandering where the tracks used to be it was rather frightening even in broad daylight. I spotted plenty of trash, used syringes (not the ones used for insulin, either,) used condoms, had a near-death encounter with some redneck’s pit bull, and all sorts of nastiness, but no berry bushes.

I don’t like going to where my grandparents used to live. It’s creepy knowing there are strange people living in their house. It’s never been a particularly nice neighborhood (although when the tracks were pulled up, the city tiled over the sewage creek, which was a bit of an improvement) but it went from ‘po folks to dangerous folks.

I can’t fault anyone for having dogs, but when I bring Clara with me (partially because she likes to explore, and partially for protection) I don’t need someone’s pit bull coming at her as if it were going to tear out her throat. Clara is formidable (she’s half Malinois, after all) but if a pit bull really wanted to get aggressive with Clara it would be ugly, and it would break my heart to see either her or another dog injured unnecessarily. One of the most important tasks of a dog owner is to teach good socialization skills and appropriate behavior with other dogs. Protection breeds are more prone to dog-aggression than most, so I try to keep all my dogs’ encounters with other dogs as positive ones. Clara is particularly well mannered with other dogs and I want to keep her that way. Should she have a bad encounter with another dog, it would be harmful to her physical well-being as well as her mindset toward other dogs.

I have mulled over the possibility of getting a pittie- though I am more familiar with the herding breed mentality.

I don’t have a problem with pit bulls- or any other dog breed- when the dog is handled responsibly. A well trained and properly socialized pittie can be a fantastic, gentle, intelligent dog, but even an ankle biter can be dangerous if it’s ill-treated and improperly trained. A pit bull can be deadly in the wrong hands, just as a GSD, Malinois, Doberman, Rottie, and just about any other breed, etc. can be as well. No dog is born aggressive or dangerous. He / she has to be made that way.

Today I’m just trying to keep my mind off the rain and the funk and the dreariness.

Then I remember the damned basketball tournament is going to be all over TruTV, and I hope and pray I DVRd a whole lot of episodes of Top Gear and the bizarre 90’s cartoons I love so well. Mmm, three middle aged Brits playing with cars, Cow and Chicken and 2 Stupid Dogs. I guess that will have to be intellectual enough for me.

If You Only Knew What’s in Food, You’d Never Eat Again

February 9, 2013Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

Today I am glad I don’t live in the UK. Or at least that I didn’t eat frozen lasagna in the UK.

Cheddar cheese on lasagna? That’s almost as bad as eating Mr. Ed!

Maybe I shouldn’t be so critical. I love the Brits in most things, but English food is scary as hell to begin with, at least to American sensibilities. It’s not necessarily dangerous to eat horse meat, but it is culturally taboo, even in the UK where people eat really nasty sounding things like blood pudding and kidney pie and haggis. I think as far as frozen lasagna goes I’ll stick with the Stouffer’s red-box stuff. It may be mystery meat, but it’s still some tasty stuff.

They don’t claim that the meat is beef. It’s just “meat” which could be anything.

I think if we really knew what was in food we would never eat again.

Gravy happens. And this stuff looks like puke. I want to know who tasted it to verify that it “tastes like beef stew.” Used beef stew?

When my Dad was growing up on the west side of Marion, there was a dog food manufacturing plant about 2 miles from where he and my grandparents lived. In the 1950’s horse meat was a major ingredient in dog food, as well as carcasses of various livestock. Back then, pretty much any meat source that could be rendered down was used in dog food. The dog food plant closed down in the early 1980’s, (long after it had been made illegal to use horse meat in dog food) but I can still remember the stench of that joint if the wind was blowing the wrong way. It was not a pleasant smell.

One night the horses they were keeping to slaughter the next day got out and followed the railroad tracks to my grandparents’ house. Dad woke up and was screaming about horses running through the back yard. Grandpa thought Dad was nuts until he saw the horses for himself.

Sometimes I almost get the vegans’ argument against eating anything with a face. I couldn’t imagine eating an animal like a horse or a dog if I put a face on it, but then I remember that cats are obligatory carnivores, and I remember that most humans who espouse vegan eating really aren’t as healthy as they want to suggest, mentally or physically. I just don’t think that smelling like an abattoir, (in spite of not eating meat?) having grey, scaly skin, braid-able hair on the armpits and legs, and straw-like scarecrow hair sticking up from one’s head are indicators of health. Nor do I think wiping with reusable cloths or burying my car is a good idea to “save the planet” either. I like an occasional Porterhouse steak. I like my leather shoes, I like to remove superfluous body hair, and I’d rather be dead than have dreadlocks.

Never trust the unbathed.

I understand meat-eating is a cultural thing. Personally I find the thought of eating dogs highly offensive, but they do it in Asia. I have no problem with eating rabbits, squirrels or deer, while some people I know think that’s the grossest thing ever. I don’t care for lamb or mutton, but the dogs love it. Supposedly that’s what their food is based on, but I really don’t want to know what’s in dog food. It’s bad enough to consider what’s in food meant for humans.

I found a taste tester.

I could save a lot of money this way. Just shut up and eat it. You just don’t want to know.

Dog Doo, Tea Bagging, Dingbats and Family Annoyances

January 29, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I’ve never been much for political correctness, but my boobs aren’t speaking to you, bubba.

I’ve always had a sort of loathing for meetings/seminars/workshops in which the facilitator requires the participants to wear name tags. At least a name tag like this could have served a practical purpose in a few of those sort of events. I appreciate my anonymity, and hide behind it whenever I can. I never had the choice of a cute HK tag to wear, even as the only chick at most of the automotive functions (there still aren’t very many female parts or service managers in car dealerships) I’ve attended.

I really don’t give two shits in a high wind if some stranger from Moose Dick, Alaska, who I will never see again, remembers my boobs, or my name. I’d rather he forget them both. Unless he’s hot, and there are exactly -0- hot guys on the planet who have ever bothered to drool on my shirt.

I’ve considered it a plus when the boob-oglers had teeth and hair.

Of course now that I’m older, the kinds of guys who would be ogling my cleavage (providing their vision is still good enough) have gotten even more scary than they used to be.

Some older guys are hot. Unfortunately they were hot when they were younger too, and they ignored me then, too. I was a kegger when I was 21, and that has not improved with age. I am not one of the beautiful people, and usually that doesn’t bother me much.

I guess if you’re that dumb, you deserve to be removed from the gene pool.

Today I’m sounding pretty misandrist (which is unusual for me, because I generally like men and get along better with them than with other women) and I’m sure it has to do with Jerry. He did go and work out last night which I am proud of him for. I just hope he isn’t too disheartened to find out that he can’t keep up with me. I can bench press more than he can. But in all fairness I quit smoking over 10 years ago, I don’t drink, and I’ve been working out already pretty consistently for the past 3 years. He’s 12 years older than me, still smokes like a freight train, considers beer a food group, and lifts weights 12 ounces at a time. That mindset apparently doesn’t do jack for your upper body strength.

Jerry can be a horrible dingbat at times and he displayed that today. I really hate any family member calling me at work unless it’s something important. Usually it’s dumb shit that can wait. Unless someone is in the hospital or dead, or by some Miracle of God I’ve come into some serious money, I really don’t want to hear about it. I have to talk to enough people and hear about enough problems while I’m at work without listening to anyone’s tirade about this that or the other thing that I can’t remedy until later anyway. Jerry calls me with stupid shit (pun intended) such as “Sheena had the shits all over the floor.”

Yes, Jerry, clean it up! With your bare hands! Why not?

So then I get to dread cleaning up congealed diarrheal dog shit for all the rest of the day. Thanks, Jerry, for being the shit monitor. How about YOU cleaning it up every once in awhile? Jerry’s really good about pointing out the (blessedly rare) dog or cat accidents, but then he claims that “I can’t clean it up, because I’ll puke.” Granted, I have a very limited sense of smell, but I can see, and I can feel, and I can be weird about germs, so what makes you think cleaning up shit is less gross for me, Captain Oblivious?

Mom is just as bad. She will call me with some (usually) imagined crisis (usually involving Steve-o, Sophie, or one of my nephews) that I can’t do a damned thing about, only to find out later that she was making yet another mountain out of another molehill. Steve-o is 21. If he decides he wants to hang out with his buddies, or whatever, it’s not a Federal case. As far as how he is raising his daughter, he and her mother seem to be doing a good job. Barring neglect or abuse, I will not intervene with their parenting. I had a hell of enough time raising my own offspring to be butting in on how others raise theirs.

As far as parenting my nephews, apparently she doesn’t have the courage to approach my sisters every time she thinks they’ve stepped outside their bounds. In reality, my sisters are much stricter with my nephews than I ever was with Steve-o. Unless they are doing illegal things or egregiously immoral things, it is none of my business and my sisters are responsible for correcting them anyway.

“Mother” does not start with “s.” She is his grandmother, but the no-smother clause works with grandparents as well. She might be Catholic, but, Steve-o’s not. (See the video clip from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life on Protestantism which is pretty funny.) Though I may not approve of fornication, I also know that a.) he’s going to, and b.) if he’s going to, using a rubber is a pretty good idea. He already has one offspring that we know about.

“Oooh, what are you doing with condoms!”

I only wish Jerry had been calling to bitch about something as trivial as dog shit. Apparently he failed to understand what I meant, on numerous occasions, when I said I was cancelling a very expensive automatic recurring withdrawal from my checking account (i.e. that I could no longer pay for his life insurance, etc. that had been coming out of my checking account, and that he swore up and down, “yeah, I’ll pay you for it” but never did.) Apparently (oh lucky freaking me) dumb-ass answered the home phone when he was home at lunch, which is only really there for phone solicitors and other people I don’t want to talk to. So the insurance people were wondering why we had cancelled, etc. (and those people are annoying as shit when they call because they get a spiff on every policy they convince you not to cancel) so, not remembering I said I was cancelling the EFT, he proceeded to call me at work and give me a nasty little tirade about it.

Just because I’m used to irrational tirades doesn’t mean I enjoy them.

Joy.

I know I shouldn’t let him take financial advantage of me, (and I’m done with subsidizing these ridiculously overpriced insurance policies) but I will have hell to pay for it. I’m not looking forward to that at all.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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