Cats and Dogs, the Natty Impaired, and Physical Fitness

January 25, 2013Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I love this chart, because for the most part, it’s true.

Most dogs are not terribly body sensitive. Sheena is a bit head-shy, but I think that’s because she’s deaf, which means she’s highly reliant upon what she sees and she doesn’t want anything to obstruct her vision. Lilo is extremely body sensitive (don’t even try to touch her feet or tail without giving fair warning) for a dog, but she’s an exception rather than a rule. Clara must think she’s a cat, because she adores having her butt scratched as much if not more than a typical cat.

Isabel and Jezebel (the two black cats, and the oldest and youngest) are cling-on cats. They love attention, seek it out, and can’t get enough physical closeness, petting, cuddling, etc. Fanny (the behemoth silver tabby and white) and F.B. (Fluffy Butt, the tortoiseshell Angora) are both more selective about who they want attention from, for how long, and when. They have their moments of wanting attention, but they also have their moments of being downright anti-social. Especially Fanny.

Me (Isabel- right) and Mini-me (Jezebel- left)

Jezebel is not going to be a terribly large cat. Isabel is very small for an adult cat (just over 5#) and Fanny was bigger than her by the time Fanny was three months old. Jezebel is about 18 weeks old at this point and is maybe 2 1/2- 3#. Jezebel will likely grow and fill out a bit after she’s spayed, but I doubt if it will be by much. Isabel’s spayed too. Cats do most of their growing before their adult teeth come in. Jezebel already has her adult incisors and canine teeth (yes, cats are carnivores and therefore they possess four elongated canine teeth, like all other carnivores) and it likely won’t be long before she gets the premolars and molars too. An interesting (nerd alert) aside- a cat is actually more of a true carnivore than a dog, because a cat is an obligatory carnivore that requires meat in their diet to survive, whilst dogs can survive without meat in their diet. Cats cannot manufacture their own taurine, which is an essential amino acid that has to do with vision and regulating heart beat. Dogs (and humans) can manufacture their own taurine, but cats can only get taurine from meat in their diet.

Vegans beware- put your cat on a vegan diet and it will soon go blind and then die- so don’t impose your meatless lifestyle on your cat. Or on me for that matter. I may not need meat to live, but I sure do like it.

F.B. is a beautiful cat, but she despises cameras. I was lucky to get this one.

F.B. is probably the quietest and most unobtrusive of my cats. She likes attention if it’s one-on-one, and she loves to just chill with the other cats. For the most part she sits back and observes, and sleeps.

Fanny was aptly named. That’s what I get for listening to Queen.

Fanny is huge. 17# for a female cat is big. She has big bones, and she has big meat on the big bones also, which is ironic because Isabel and Jezebel- each- eat more than she does. They are tiny and svelte, yet they are eating machines. Fanny is a fussy eater who eats only a very few things, (for instance Fanny refuses Vienna sausages, which the other cats adore) and she slowly and methodically chews each bite. I feel for Fanny and her metabolism. She also has a bit of a jealousy complex and an attitude. She was not at all happy about Jezebel coming in and taking her position as the young petulant indulged one, even though Fanny’s four years old and should be over it by now.

Clara and Lilo have always been close. Sometimes Lilo will get into Clara’s crate with her.

Clara (top) and Lilo (bottom) have been close ever since we got them. Clara had been with us a few months when we got Lilo, and they are only a few months apart in age. Even now that they’re older (Clara’s 10, Lilo’s 9) they still occasionally play tug of war with their toys and play-fight with each other.

They still enjoy this, even though Clara’s bigger and usually wins.

Sheena is well, Sheena. She is her own dog.

Sheena’s part Husky. Sheena has a number of flaws that are consistent with inbreeding- severe hip dysplasia, deafness, gross motor deficits (may or may not be related to HD) and she’s downright goofy. Maybe some of her cognitive deficiencies are related to the fact that she used to live at the Tetanus Farm which was also a puppy mill and (suspected) meth lab. There’s a reason why it’s a bad idea to procreate with first degree relatives, and that applies to dogs as well as humans. But Sheena’s endearing in her own weird way. I have a soft spot for rejects and misfits. That must explain Jerry. A warning to women: if a guy’s 38, straight, and never married, there is a good reason why.

Today begins Jerry’s fitness program. He’s the one who wanted a membership at the Y and actually gave me money to pay for it. This is almost scary in a way. I can’t imagine Jerry in work out clothes, on a treadmill or elliptical, or lifting any sort of weight over 12 ounces.

He will be so disappointed when he discovers the only fluids available at the Y are water, diet soda and fruit juice, and there are no beer holders on the cardio machines. But I will be happy if he at least goes and gives it a try.

On the other hand, I am anxiously looking forward to enjoying the indoor pool, being able to swim laps starting at 5:30 in the morning, and being able to work out on the ellipticals. Swimming and elliptical machines are two modes of exercise that allow me to get the cardio and strength training I need without destroying my joints even more than they are already. The Y also has nice showers, so if I choose to go there to work out before work instead of working out at home, I can actually swim laps, do some cardio, and then shower and go to work from there. Nice.

Hopefully he won’t think this is what I mean by “work out clothes.”

I Don’t Seek Approval, Party Like It’s 1899, and Things that Don’t Suck

January 3, 2013Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

I usually don’t succumb to the lure of corny party kitsch, but the light up necklace was cute.

I’ve said before I don’t deal much in the currency of optimism, so I don’t see this year being much of an improvement over last. In fact, I started today out rather depressed. Today’s been one of those days where I’m actually trolling for things to cheer me up a bit. I’m actively fighting against the urge to just concede to the Dark Funk and give up. I guess the fact that I’m fighting the temptation to just give into hopelessness is either a good sign, or it’s just an unwillingness to face the reality that my life is pretty much hopeless.

The best way to give myself a reality check, I’ve discovered is to make three lists- Things that Suck that I Can’t Change, Things that Suck that I Can Change, and Things that Don’t Suck.

Things that Suck that I Can’t Change:

Obama. ‘Nuff said.

Personal poverty/ not being financially independent

Being stuck in Ohio, especially in the winter

Health issues* (can mitigate but not eliminate- bad heredity and effects from past diseases/injuries suck)

Jerry – especially when he gets into his “bitch about everything and blame everything on me” mode

Things that Suck that I Can (*theoretically anyway) Change

My own reaction to things that suck

My neglect of friends that I should make an effort to see and communicate with more often

I already turn off the “mainstream” TV news (can’t handle the constant Obama worship) and I already avoid following garbage on TV such as anything Honey Boo Boo or the Kardashians are doing. Admittedly I probably get into true crime shows (TruTV, Discovery ID, etc.) and the Military Channel way too much. I should probably cut down on “World’s Dumbest” and “1000 Ways to Die” and get back into reading a lot more than I do now (although I read a lot by any standard) and maybe get into something a bit more uplifting than unsolved murders, people earning their Darwin Awards, and 20th century history. I mean, how much is left unturned regarding WWII and Adolf Hitler?

Things that Don’t Suck

God

The dogs and cats

The vacuum cleaner when it gets clogged up with Tipsy McNumbNuts’ cigarette pack cellophanes (the irony of which is that it sucks when the vacuum cleaner doesn’t…)

There is no vacuum cleaner made that I don’t have to unclog, tear apart and otherwise rework every time I use the damned thing.

Somehow the deer in the headlights look is a little too typical for me.

Now that I’ve determined that God and the dogs and cats don’t suck, then it should probably follow that I should spend my time in the company of Entities that Don’t Suck as much as I can.

Since for now I do appear to be vertical and sucking up valuable oxygen, let’s be creative and try to enjoy it!

I rather enjoy Victorian ephemera- especially patent medicines and other creepy stuff from that era. I’m surprised anyone survived being treated with the stuff they used as medicine back then, since most of it included either alcohol or opium or various poisons like arsenic, but even today there’s some pretty questionable stuff being used as medicine.

Imagine the same scenario today, only the rednecks have chainsaws, and the little girl has a bottle of moonshine.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

That’s actually one of the few French phrases I remember from high school French class (Why in the hell did I take French? Did I think I was going to be deported to Quebec?) and it means, “The more things change, the more they stay the same.” Yes, they do, and not always in a good way.

I didn’t think Harry Potter had to worry about VD. Or was that “mugworts?” That sounds like VD anyway. Something like that.

I’m thinking “Bad Hump” would be a better name for a VD cure-all. “Take this stuff for last week’s bad hump.” Or you could just leave it to Dr. Butts:

I want to be cured via the US Postal Service. By Dr. Butts. Yeah.

It’s really kind of scary considering that there really were no cures for VD in Victorian times, and if you got the syph or the clap it could kill you. Sort of like AIDS today, and heaven only knows whatever other deadly STDs are lurking out there that nobody knows about yet. Forced chastity might bite in a lot of ways, but I’m old enough to know that 1.) no man is worth a deadly disease, and 2.) there are such things as “meat substitutes” if you get my drift. The advantage of the “meat substitute” is you don’t have to fix it dinner or unclog its cigarette pack cellophanes from the vacuum cleaner. I only wish I’d figured that out 20 years ago. Just don’t run out of batteries.

Piles: Old time word for “hemorrhoid” – just an FYI

Why is it that back in the day being German cast some sort of legitimacy upon medical quackery? And I find it hard to believe that a medical doctor would spend most of his life on a hemorrhoid cure, but then everyone needs a purpose. I’ve still not figured out exactly why I’m still sucking up valuable oxygen, so I’m the last one to talk.

The 20th century wasn’t much better, but at least you could get a good night’s rest, forget about your hemorrhoids AND forget about your pathetic lack of self-esteem!

Stop Misanglody, Jezebel’s First Road Trip, and Lilo’s Butt Funk

December 12, 2012Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

Back in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s there were a lot of Americans who weren’t terribly fond of the Irish.

Misanglody (N): 1.)The condition of loathing all things white, Anglo-Saxon and/or Protestant. 2.) A rather pervasive and pernicious form of racism prevalent in the United States, generally ignored when directed against traditional white conservatives. 3.) Cracka-hating.

Granted, a lot of the fear generated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries regarding immigration to the U.S. had more to do with religion than country of origin. Many people in this country were afraid of Catholics (because of their belief in the primacy of the pope and the fact that the Mass was said in Latin rather than in English) and were afraid the Catholics would take over. This sounds sort of crazy today but before Vatican II, Catholics referred to other Christians (i.e. Protestants and Orthodox) as “heathens.” Today Catholics have a more beneficent term for Protestants and Orthodox: “separated brethren.”

That’s a little nicer, but as someone who was raised in Catholicism, I will tell you that the Catholics still teach that their goal on this earth is to convert others (including Protestants and Orthodox) to Catholicism. If you’re a Protestant or Orthodox, according to Catholics, you might be Christian, but you don’t have the Faith in its completeness. Catholic theology is an interesting study- and as a confessional Lutheran I am not too far removed from it, but I don’t subscribe to it 100% either. I got lost on the pope thing as well I got lost on the prayers to dead people thing. To each his or her own, and I know a lot of Catholics that live good Christian lives, but I can’t consider myself to be a Catholic because I don’t subscribe to Catholicism 100%. That’s one of the Catholic Rules, that you agree 100% with their rules. Which makes me a Protestant by definition. Just sayin’.

This was some of the same stuff Martin Luther had problems with 500 years ago. I’m not saying all Catholics are party to the corruption, or that Protestants are scandal-free, but it’s still there. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

Today most Americans aren’t particularly wicky about either Irish people (though I know a few people who aren’t really fond of Bono) or Catholics, which is a good thing. I don’t have a problem with Catholics other than I don’t entirely agree with them, and as far as Irish people go I can’t say much, because a good number of my ancestors are English and Scots- just different parts of the same island.

Anyway, the point is that racism (as well as the myth that freedom of religion means freedom from religion) in this country should be a thing of the past. It’s not, and it shouldn’t be, acceptable to use the “n” word or other racially derisive terms in public discourse. But it seems to be perfectly OK to lampoon the “Cracka Nation” with impunity, and when white people say anything about it they get responses such as,

“White people don’t understand racism,” or worse, “You can’t be racist against whites.” Really?

I beg to differ, and hence, I bring to light the phenomenon of misanglody.

The popular culture is full of examples of the bumbling, inept WASP male and/or the ditzy WalMart queen WASP female. Even in advertising, take notice how often the fall guy is a white guy. To someone who only sees American culture from what they watch on TV, they might leave with the misconception that all white guys are Larry the Cable Guy (no offense to Larry the Cable Guy, but not all white men cut the sleeves off their shirts) and all white women are just like Honey Boo Boo’s mother.

I have body hair issues but even I don’t have five o’clock shadow like that. Nor do I have three chins.

I do admit there are aspects of white culture that deserve the derision they get. One is British cuisine. Haggis and kidney pie do NOT sound appetizing in any remote fashion. My ancestors may be Scots, but I can’t bring myself to eat mutton in any form. The dogs eat mutton because that’s what’s in their dog food, but dogs lick their own butts and eat cat shit any time they get the opportunity to do so. Just because the dogs eat something doesn’t mean it’s edible for humans. I really don’t get the idea behind eating kidneys either. I do eat sushi, (on the rare occasion I can afford good sushi) which might not make too much sense, but I just can’t get beyond the gross factor on haggis or kidneys. Head cheese is another one I can’t get. The fun fact about head cheese is that it is not cheese at all.

Do you eat the stomach “casing” too? Ewwwwwww!

So called “white supremacists” deserve the derision they get as well. Hitler is not a role model. Obama is not white, but he also is not a role model for the same reason. Both Hitler and Obama are racists, just against different groups. Anyone who goes around spouting hate against other races and nationalities- as opposed to pointing out faulty ideology or bad public policy- deserves to be called out for it. I don’t believe white people are any better than anyone else, but I don’t believe we’re any worse either, unless you are taking into account that most of us can’t dance.

I couldn’t dance even when I could drink.

On another note, Miss Jezebel went on her first road trip yesterday. I decided since I had to take Lilo to the vet yesterday to get meds for her re-occuring butt funk (seborrhagic dermatitis) that I would take Jezebel as well because she’s had a slight but lingering bit of the eye crusties and some sneezing. So Miss Jezebel rode up to the vet’s tucked into my hoodie. At least I have a closer estimate on her age (12-14 weeks) and have verified her gender. Jezebel is definitely a girl. She didn’t seem to mind the road trip at all, and was most compliant even getting eye ointment (most cats loathe this) and taking liquid Amoxicillin. Usually I really hate giving cats either eye drops or liquids by mouth, because they normally hate it and it’s a good way to get scratched and/or bitten. She has gotten through two doses of each without much fuss. Let’s hope it’s that easy for the rest of the 10 days.

So far, I can even give her meds without resorting to welding gloves again.

Lilo is the easiest creature on the planet to medicate. She will even take Keflex without protest (getting it down Clara was an adventure, and yes, it does taste nasty) as long as it’s included in a bite of cottage cheese. The combo of Keflex and Prednisone will clear up her butt funk, but I feel for her. She does great with oral meds but isn’t so cool with the bath part of the treatment. Baths were not suggested for Jezebel, which is quite fine with me.

Most of the time Lilo is mellow. Except when her butt itches.

Observations of a Cynical Old Bitty, Sports Commentary, and Keeping it Simple

October 9, 2012Tonya Lanthron 1 Comment

I don’t drink beer. I don’t like beer. But to Jerry, this swill is the elixir of the Gods. Go figure.

Tomorrow I begin a brief vacation. Not because I’m sick, a family member’s sick or I have some stupid errand(s,) which is usually the only reason I take time off. Granted, I did tell Jerry I would list a bunch of his crap on E-Bay tonight (joy and rapture) and I did put the rack of ribs in the slow cooker. But he’s on his own for a couple of days which means the drive-thru better have some cold Natty Packs, and I better make sure he has Katie’s (the local good pizza joint) on speed dial. Tomorrow morning I head for the hills- literally- where Sprint access is a crap shoot (so no internet and probably no phone either) and things should be somewhat bull-shit free as long as Jerry doesn’t show up and ruin the quiet.

I’ll have Miss Clara with me, to screen any potential “visitors.”

Clara enjoys being at the campground. I do have to make sure she’s on a leash any time she’s not in the cabin, but I give her a long lead and let her explore. Clara is obedient and usually a good listener, but my only fear is that with the prey drive she has that she would lunge off after a critter and get lost. Prey drive is an instinctual thing with dogs, and when she’s locked on to something she may or may not respond to verbal commands. This is why a lot of people who work with protection breeds use shock collars (no I am not going there) so they can get a dog’s attention should they get locked on a prey item. I don’t want to take that chance in an area where she can get lost and/or mistaken for a deer. Admittedly, I’ve been paranoid with Clara ever since she was hit by a truck three years ago. She has never attempted to get beyond the fence since then, even when Sheena has found – or fabricated for herself- ways out. Sheena has about ten pounds on Clara, so any hole big enough for Sheena is more than big enough for Clara. Before she got hit Clara thought it was a fun game to try to find holes in the fence and such, but she has not strayed even once since. Still, I’m not taking any undue chances with her.

I’m not trying to get my hopes up about the upcoming election, though I was most encouraged by Romney’s debate performance last Wednesday. I’d never really thought Romney was much of a public speaker but this debate was a most pleasant surprise. The man knows what he’s talking about, and more importantly, he believes in what he says. The absence of the teleprompter was rather telling for Obama. Apparently Eastwood was right. Now if only the rest of the world will get a clue and see what I’ve known all along. The self-proclaimed “emperor” is naked as a jay bird.

Bluejays may not wear clothes, but at least they do have feathers.

Bluejays are interesting birds in that they eat almost anything, and they’re rather aggressive. A few years ago there was a huge scare in Franklin County regarding West Nile virus and people were asked to report any dead crows or jays (crows and jays are actually related types of birds) so the health department could test them. Of course I’m the lucky one to find a dead jay out in the front yard that wasn’t visibly mauled by cats or hit by anything, just stiff and dead as a post, so kept my distance and called the health department to come and get it for testing. I’m not a big fan of communicable disease, so I figure better safe than sorry. If there’s crap like that lurking about in my yard I want to know about it.

In response to my call, some guy from the health department showed up, with his hazmat garb and everything, to pick up the dead jay (with thickly gloved hands of course.) The health department guy observed that the jay’s mouth was open and that it had another bird (likely a baby starling) jammed in its throat in such a manner that it likely choked to death. He still took the dead jay for testing, but assured me that the cause of death was most likely asphxyiation rather than West Nile. Apparently this is a somewhat common manner of death for jays.

Thankfully no one needs to tell me this twice.

Most sports are pretty stupid when you think about it. Football for instance, involves chasing a funky shaped ball up and down a field. It also involves having very big guys jump all over your sorry carcass. I spent the first thirteen years of my life trying to avoid having my ass kicked. Even if I were coordinated and could play a sport for money, I don’t think the scratch would be worth daily ass kickings all over again. NFL players are coming out and saying that they are getting brain damage from all the concussions they get playing football. Granted most athletes aren’t rocket scientists to begin with (and I say this from deep within the highly uncoordinated geek camp) but shouldn’t brain damage be your sign that playing certain sports might not be worth it?

Today you’re throwing a football on national TV. Tomorrow you’re sucking up pureed bananas in a straw whilst shitting your drawers.

Hockey is another sport I don’t get. It’s only fun if they fight.

Which brings us to NASCAR fans and WalMart shoppers….

Perhaps that’s mean of me, and a bit ironic, because occasionally I go to WalMart, if I have to get something I can’t find at Target, or I’m in Marion where there is no Target. But NASCAR, I can’t bring myself to watch that shit. Ever.

Must have taken this pic in Newark (OH)- the Lardy Lady Capitol of the Midwest!

Freddy Mercury would have loved Newark. Big fat Fannys everywhere!

Speaking of big fat Fanny- but she’s a cat- and she’s cute.

Some Enchanted Rednecks, A Few of My Favorite Things, and Improved is My Mood

October 3, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I’m not generally the kind of person that goes around spouting sunshine out of my nether regions. At best I’m pragmatic. At worst I’m downright fatalistic, and that’s when the panic attacks and confusion set in. Anxiety sucks. I’ve taken that trip before, and I do NOT want to go there. The past few days I’d been heading down that dark spiral, and letting things get on my nerves entirely too much, but today things are looking up. I attribute the improvement in my mental/emotional state to the positive power of prayer. Despite my dark mood last night, I dragged myself to my bible study class, and as usual, the conversation and the study material was both timely and spoke to my own dissatisfaction and melancholy. There are times when I need a bit of a nudge to keep from falling into the same boring rut and despair. After all, I have much to be thankful for, and I do have some activities to look forward to.

Saturday night I’m taking Steve-o to the Mansfield Reformatory. This is the old prison where the movie Shawshank Redemption was filmed. On the surface that sounds terrible, and normally the words prison and fun should never go together, but there’s an event called the Dead Walk that’s held around Halloween every year where you get to go through the prison, and legend has it, get the holy bejeebers scared out of you. I love Halloween and all things slasher (I’m the only one Steve-o could get to take him to the Saw movies) so it should be a cool trip.

Zombies are awesome. I’ll have to find a DVD of Shaun of the Dead to enjoy at the campground.

Next week I have actually arranged to take my three sanity days (Wednesday, Thursday and Friday) and I’m taking Clara down to the campground for some peace and quiet. Since the campground is pretty deserted during the week- especially in the off season- I want Clara with me. If I want to use the phone there I have to go to the top of the hill, and even then Sprint access is sporadic.

Nobody gets past Clara. Unless she approves.

Clara, on the other hand, is always alert, and I would have have plenty of advance notice should anyone turn up unannounced. So all I need to do is bring some DVDs, some reading material, the MP3 player, clean clothes and toiletries and stop off at the grocery store in town for a few days’ meal fixings and it’s all cool. Hopefully Jerry won’t ruin the blissful silence by coming down there. Then I’ll end up driving five miles one way to fetch his beer, smokes, lottery tickets and so forth, whenever he runs out of any of those. My dream vacation- driving into the nearest town at all hours to fetch for Jerry. I’d rather be at work. It sounds mean, but a vacation with him is just work for me. He gets plenty of rest at home. I’m always doing his leg work for him. He doesn’t need a vacation. The idea here is for me to get away and not be pestered. However, I have a bad feeling he’s going to end up going down there. If he stays home he might actually have to fix a meal, or heaven forbid, cart his own happy ass to the drive thru that’s just down the road (well within walking distance) to replenish his beer, smokes and lottery ticket needs.

Jerry, it’s not like we live in the ‘hood. The drive-thru is not in Detroit on 8 Mile Road for heaven’s sake.

I’ve been on 8 Mile Road in Detroit. Jerry had bought some wheels on E-Bay from someone up there on local pick up. The dude lived in a very horrible neighborhood, which we didn’t realize until we got up there. I had both doors locked on the truck, and even at a stop light I kept it in first with the clutch in, ready to take off quick should the truck be jumped- and this was in broad daylight. Suffice to say it appears to be a war zone, and so far is the only place I’ve ever been in my life that is worse than both Cleveland and East St. Louis. I never lost anything in Detroit and have no desire to go back there. I did enjoy the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, but even getting there requires one to drive in places one should never attempt to drive- unless you have an armored car.

I’m pretty sure Steve-o wasn’t trolling about in the CVS looking for cosmetics.

I’d warned Steve-o about the diversity he might experience in the area around Children’s Hospital when the baby had to go there a few months ago. We used to live near that area but now the hospital has bought up a good deal of the real estate, and what’s left has either been “gentrified” (aka: made too expensive for rednecks to live there) or ironically, taken over by crack-heads. Steve-o wanted to walk over to the CVS to get smokes and pop with sugar in it (which they don’t sell in the hospital) so I cautioned him to watch his back because he’s used to rural locales and rural rednecks. Steve-o no sooner arrives at the CVS when a rather effeminate man taps him on the shoulder and whispers, “Honey, I’ve got just what you need.” Steve-o is not a small guy, and he’s also not shy. Steve-o looked the little dude in the eye, shaked his fist, and replied, “I’ve got just what you need right here.” Fortunately there was no altercation. I don’t care about other’s lifestyle choices, but the mommy-claws still kind of come out on that one, which is weird, because Steve-o is perfectly capable of fending off unwanted attention. It’s still creepy – at least to me.

Other people’s lifestyle choices don’t bother me as long as they’re not shoved in my face. I could care less- until or unless the bull dykes hit on me. So far that hasn’t happened, and I am glad for it. Then I might have a problem, should a simple “I’m straight,” fail to deflect unwanted advances. I probably won’t ever have to worry about it. I don’t get hit on by men either.

I am no paragon of good parenting skills, but at least I never did this.

Steve-o did get himself duct-taped to a core support once, when he was about nine, but that’s his just dessert for mouthing off to the guys at the body shop. Nine year old boys do tend to exaggerate their ass-kicking skills a bit much. I only wish I’d gotten a pic of him hanging off the core support of that F-150. Call me a mean mommy, but I made him beg and plead and cry “Uncle” so the guys would cut him down. I hope that didn’t warp him any more than he warped the guy who he decorated with a Sharpie. I guess it’s not good to be the first guy to pass out at a party, at least if it’s a party Steve-o is attending. His buddy woke up with the word “PENIS” emblazoned on his forehead in black Sharpie, backward, so he could read it clearly when he looked in the mirror.

If this is how some people treat their friends…

The Frequent Whizzer’s Club, Deaf is Not Dumb, and What Fools Believe

September 4, 2012Tonya Lanthron 4 Comments

I survived. 500 miles, give or take a mile or two, is not a terribly short trip. I managed to get back in just about 9 hours, which is not bad time for someone who gets a bit wigged out by mountain driving, and is doing good to drive 200 miles at a time without having to stop and whiz. Central Ohio is flat. I have no problem with driving in the city, but I don’t have to deal with either curves or grades too much here. There’s something unnerving about mountain driving when you’re not used to it. I’ve seen a bit of the carnage that comes off the rural Interstates, and it’s not pretty.

The route I prefer is about 30 miles longer than going via the WV Turnpike, but I don’t go on the Turnpike for a number of reasons. First of all, the Turnpike is a toll road. Second of all, the speed limit is 75 and should be 45. The last time I drove the Turnpike the speed limit was 55, and that’s way the hell too fast for those curves and grades. Perhaps if I had a suitable rally car (i.e. VW GTI…) I would find the curves and grades exciting, but all I can envision in the Yaris is being blown off a hillside by either a big truck or a nice gust of wind. 42 MPG has its trade-offs. Weight is one of them. The Yaris is a light car with a moderate suspension, which is optimal for most road trips, but not for extreme mountain driving. Wind is its nemesis. I have no logical reason to drive the Turnpike, and no pressing reason to find myself stranded in the middle of WV. Let’s just say hotel accommodations down in the hollers can be a bit primitive, and the nearest trauma center is clear the hell back in Columbus.

I’ve been around body shops way too much. I often visualize the worst.

Granted, this dismembered Audi met its fate on the Autobahn, where there are very few speed restrictions. I don’t see any blood and guts though, which meant that German engineering must count for something. The driver likely survived.

Taking I-71 to I-75 to I-40 is the least offensive, though not technically the fastest route. Most of that route takes one through the rolling hills of Kentucky- lots of horses and tobacco fields and, as Jerry was quick to point out, truck stops with $30 a carton cigarettes. If I had to take the Turnpike, it would be a few miles shorter, but any time gained would have been spent scraping the crap out of my pants. The worst part of the trip is that stretch of I-40 between the Tennessee border and where my sister lives, in Old Fort. When you see runaway truck ramps, going downhill is a tad bit disturbing- especially when Dad’s driving and he’s pushing 90, changing lanes, and laughing like a teenage kid.

This scares the living hell out of me.

Speaking of frequent whizzing, I don’t think Dad can make it 100 miles without having to whiz. I thought I was bad about constantly having to hit the head, and Mom’s not much better, but geez! I swear we stopped about 8 times on the way down, including munching as well as whizzing, which is why it took us 11 hours to get down there, in spite of Dad mistaking the Yaris for a rally car and doing about 85 all through that nice little stretch of I-40 from the Tennessee border all through NC. The Yaris is not a rally car. It will do 85 in the mountains, but suffice to say it’s ill advised. I’m glad I was sitting in the back seat, trying to distract myself with the DS.

Suprisingly, Sheena is not weird about touch- as long as she can see you.

I’m still trying to get it through my own thick skull that Sheena can’t hear at all. Many dogs with her coat pattern are deaf. All puppies are born deaf, but if her deafness is inherited, she simply never acquired hearing at the age of two weeks like normal dogs do. She compensates amazingly well, but knowing she’s deaf makes her shortcomings easy to understand. She survives on what she can see and smell and even feel (she is very sensitive to touch and vibrations.) Motion is a huge trigger for her. Her peripheral vision is amazing- but stand directly behind her and she’s oblivious. If she can’t see you, and you don’t stomp on the floor behind her, she has no idea you’re there. To me that would be a scary way to go through life, but she has never known anything different. You deal with life using what you’ve been given. Sheena has survived and adapted remarkably well. Somehow she’s ended up incredibly outgoing and affectionate.

OK, a little original artwork of mine, in honor of Miz Izz. Black cats are awesome.

I’m not much of an artist. Sometimes I like to scribble about, and this actually looked kind of cool. Of course, black cats are always cool. If I were required to have a tattoo, which I’m not, and I don’t see it happening, I wouldn’t mind a cool design like this.

The 1950’s were such an innocent time. Hell, all the TV on back then probably was educational.

Today Motorola’s claim to fame is cell phones, but back in the days of black and white TV, it was a popular brand. This ad (and all those lovely “More Doctors Smoke Camels” ads) only goes to show that advertising is exactly that: an attempt to convince you to buy crap, even if it might kill you.

1950’s TV- no TruTV, no Investigation Discovery or Science Channel or History Channel. That would have to have sucked, but not knowing any better, kids went outside to play. Even in the 1970’s the TV landscape- at least for kids- was pretty bleak. Mom didn’t mind us watching Mr. Rogers or Sesame Street. Saturday morning cartoons such as the Flintstones, Scooby Doo, Tom & Jerry, Bugs Bunny, Fat Albert and The Hairbear Bunch were OK too, but usually she turned the TV off when Soul Train came on. Soul Train was not appropriate, because 1. the girls didn’t wear enough clothes, and 2. they “dance dirty.”

Mom had no idea how much worse the world of “dance” was going to get.

Mom grew up in Catholic school, so I can understand her distress at this girl going braless, and shaking her booty, but this was long, long before Marion County got a Wal Mart. If you want a true clothing FAIL, that’s the place to go.

And it doesn’t mean “Fantastic.”

Have you no self respect?

Suffer the Old Cougar, Sheena’s Special Needs, and the Things on My Memory Card

August 29, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I don’t have too many strange little pieces of kitsch lying around, but this is one of them. I even know where it should have been at one time.

This is a ’69 Cougar. The emblem, above, that I happened upon in some yard sale crap box, is the same as the one on the LF fender.

I never was a true believer in old Detroit iron. I’m still a bit of a car snob- I love, but can’t afford and don’t want to deal with the high maintenance on the European stuff, so I am happy with a utilitarian Toyota that is easy to maintain, reliable and efficient and I leave it at that for now. Unless I come into money and can buy that ’69 FJ40, the ’69 Karmann Ghia and the ’83 GTI I’d like to have to play with.

Even back in the ’80’s when all the other motorheads were into Camaros or Mustangs or (heaven forbid) anything Mopar, I was playing with VW Rabbits and air-cooled VW rail buggies. However, if you are/were into old muscle cars, the ’69 and ’70 Mercury Cougars were somewhat rare, and are aesthetically very cool. Mom actually had a ’70 Cougar, with a 351 Windsor no less- the one she sold way too cheap because my cat, LeRoy, decided to take a leak all over the back seat. As part of the same eliminatory session, LeRoy also left a huge dump right on the driver’s seat. That’s why you never leave the window down. Leaving windows down on any unattended car in Ohio is a bad idea for a number of reasons. First, it can get jacked that way. Second, it can rain anytime, regardless of what the “forecast” indicates. Third, outdoor cats may mistake your ride for an upholstered toilet. No matter what she tried, the piss smell just wouldn’t come out. LeRoy lived outside because he wasn’t neutered (I was only a little kid and couldn’t afford to get the poor cat’s nuts cut so he could live in the house) and now I know why neutering a tomcat is pretty important if you want him to live inside. Male cat urine does not ever come out of upholstery. “Little Trees” don’t help, either. The dude who bought that old Cougar freely admitted to having no sense of smell. He smelled worse than the interior of the car to begin with, so I understand why he could have cared less. It was a good match.

LeRoy looked like Morris the 9Lives cat, but Dad hates cats, so LeRoy it was, since that’s Dad’s middle name.

LeRoy (in spite of having my Dad’s rather unfortunate middle name- Grandma sure had a sense of humor) was a really cool cat. He was about Fanny sized- 16#-17#, and I could do anything with him, up to and including putting him in doll clothes and walking him around in a doll stroller. He actually was a street cat, but he knew where the food was (I did bring him food) and he was one of those twisted big cats that liked little kids picking him up and playing with him. Leave to me to attract the neighborhood misfits and strays.

Speaking of misfits and strays, we have discovered why Sheena is so difficult and seemingly incorrigible. On top of all her other issues, Sheena is deaf.

No wonder she doesn’t listen. She’s deaf as a post.

I don’t know why we didn’t figure it out before. She follows the other dogs and will usually do what they do- but when there’s no other dog to watch and she can’t see a human, she’s lost. She does not respond to anyone if they’re behind her and she can’t see them. You can’t wake her from sleep unless you touch or shake her- sounds do not wake her up. I had thought she was just an incredibly sound sleeper, but that is not normal dog behavior. A dog that can hear will be roused from sleep by a loud noise close by. She is also much more intent on being able to see everything than a normal dog. Jerry is having a dog trainer come out to evaluate her tonight to see if she might be able to learn sign language since she is so visually focused. I have found some information that deaf dogs can learn commands in ASL, which would be a good learning experience for the other two dogs also. In a way I feel bad because we simply thought she was mentally off, but for being deaf and having to navigate that way she compensates amazingly well. Fortunately she already has some things working to her advantage. She is able to follow the other dogs and work off their visual cues and body language, which is beneficial for a deaf dog, and in some instances (case in point) a deaf dog living with hearing dogs can cue in on their behavior and adapt so well that no one can tell they’re deaf. Sheena has no fear of humans and she’s very trusting- probably because she knows that the humans have the food. I am anxious to see what the trainer has to say when he works with her.

I took this pic whilst getting Jerry’s lottery tickets at the Speedway (gas station) last night. Getting stoned in a Mom van. Go figure.

I do find some funky things to photograph. I wish there had been digital cameras back in the ’80’s. Then again, maybe not.

The boy can sleep- and drool- anywhere.

Like father, like daughter- they were both napping.

I Thought I Was a Crappy Parent, Not Too Bad With Dogs, and Silently Seeking Catatonia

August 2, 2012Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Go ahead, every lactating mother needs a good old case of the beer shits!

I can never claim to be any kind of a stellar parent. I’m not warm and fuzzy enough to be good at the Mommy thing. I did monitor my illustrious offspring for signs of the Homicidal Triad. He had one bad experience with fire (a Zippo does not double as a flashlight) but I never observed him engaging in any bedwetting or cruelty toward animals, so I think he’s safe there. He has more than a passing interest in the opposite gender, but I disabled the pay-per-view after his first $300 pay-per-view porn fest, ensuring he would have to find his smut fix elsewhere. Ironically enough, his best buddy worked the past few years at a porn store, so they both probably got to check out more XXX DVD’s than can be considered healthy.

I can say I never resorted to this little home remedy either:It’s amazing that any of our ancestors survived the Victorian era long enough to breed.

Even in light of my anemic parenting, the POMC has turned out remarkably normal. The only glaring abnormality he had was that he was born with his tongue tied to the bottom of his mouth, which is a congenital defect. The pediatrician and the ear nose and throat specialist both said poor Steve-o would not only need to have his tongue clipped, but that he would almost inevitably have speech deficits and would require years of speech therapy. When he was six months I had his tongue clipped. At eight months he started talking- clearly, loudly and constantly. When he was a year old I took him to the speech pathologist to be evaluated as I had been directed to do. After five minutes with Steve-o, the speech pathologist looked at me and said, “He’s way beyond most 12 month olds. This child does not need speech therapy.” As to his vocabulary, it is broad, though I would caution most of the time it is also rated “R.”

I’m curious to see how he’s going to react the first time his little girl drops the “F” bomb. She will. And we will all know exactly where she heard it first.

Daddy, did you have a nice effing day?

The only negative side of the tongue clipping is that freeing up Steve-o’s tongue endowed him with a really gross skill. He is able to pick his nose with his tongue. Couple this with the fact that he’s always been a veritable snot factory, and you get a visual that no one should ever be subjected to. It’s gross to see a toddler with his tongue up one nostril. It’s even more gross to see a teenage boy in the thrall of the Puberty Demon with his tongue stuck up one nostril. It’s worse than the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos “science” experiment.

Yet, somehow, the ladies were still impressed.

The POMC even has a college degree now, YAY! – meaning he’s about 95% Independent of the Parental Units, at least for now.

I did try to be a somewhat adequate parental unit. I was one of those expectant mothers who was paranoid enough to go over a year with no coffee, no alcohol, no over-the-counter remedies, and not so much as one diet soda. I had visions of my child being born a one-eyed cyclops because I’d taken a Sudafed a week before I caught wind of the impending Blessed Event. Even in the early 90’s, the common wisdom regarding things consumed was that even one Diet Dr. Pepper or one cup of coffee consumed during pregnancy or lactation could doom your child to a lifetime of slack-jawed idiocy.

Apparently the teratogenic effect of one Sudafed taken in Week 3 of pregnancy=tongue stuck to bottom of offspring’s mouth. Then again, who knows? Considering the genetic grab bag involved, Steve-o mostly got a pretty lucky grab. Except for the hair. He has the world’s nastiest hair, just like the sperm donor. It’s thick. It’s greasy. It’s mousy brown, and worst of all, kinky. Acck. At least he’s a dude, so his hair can be buzzcut into relative inoffensiveness. I would not wish that hair on a chick. It’s too early to tell if my poor granddaughter is going to be cursed with that hair as hers really hasn’t grown in yet. She’s not bald, but she doesn’t have a thick and flowing head of hair yet either. Steve-o did when he was her age, so maybe she got lucky and will have normal hair, or at least more chick-appropriate hair.

At one point his hair was almost down to his butt.

I do better with maintaining dogs. They smell better, cost less, and will never tell you to eff off. I know had I told either of my parents to eff off – ever- Dad would have beaten me to kingdom come (and I would have deserved it) and that’s only if Mom didn’t beat him to it. However, times have changed, and with the prevailing politically correct “protect the offspring’s precious little self esteem at all costs” attitude in place, a kid can call his mother anything and everything but a fine upstanding white woman, and Mom’s the evil one if Mom does something about it.

Clara does not tell me to eff off. Clara does not run up bills on pay-per-view. Advantage: Clara!

Guess what? The world does not revolve around your happy little asses, kids. The world would be a better place if there were more people in the world who would be willing to admit they suck, and it would also be a better place when people who know that someone or something sucks aren’t afraid to share that information. I think a re-read of the Emperor’s New Clothes would be a good idea for everyone. I’m tired of the idea that it’s somehow not OK to point out the obvious just because it may offend someone or reveal what everyone already knows even when it’s a glaring fact that person or situation sucks. (more on this topic later!!!)

I’ve actually managed to wheedle myself a couple of vacation days in which I seek to clear out my head and take a break. It’s going to seem strange to take time off that isn’t directly related to illness, be it my own or a family member’s. I don’t think I’ll know what to do with myself other than have a good time silently seeking catatonia. If only those around me would let me…

Yeah, I think I need a break.

The Things We Do For “Health,” and the Scourge of Domestic Drudgery

July 31, 2012Tonya Lanthron 3 Comments

Tapeworms, tapeworms, jolly jolly tapeworms, eat them up- YUM!

The tapeworm diet was featured on an episode of 1000 Ways to Die not too long ago. I know I probably shouldn’t watch that show so much, but it is entertaining in a dark way to see the convoluted manners in which some people have managed to earn their Darwin Awards. While the thought of going from a size 12 to a size 2 in a few weeks is tempting, the thought of flatworms burrowing through my vital organs and feeding on my blood and other important stuff gives me serious pause. If we give dogs a monthly de-wormer (essentially this is what Heartgard and other products that contain Ivermectin do- kill off any worm larvae that end up in a dog’s bloodstream or intestinal tract) to prevent them from getting tapeworms, heartworms, and other assorted wormy life forms because they’re harmful to dogs, then it would stand to reason that it’s not healthy to harbor tapeworms in one’s innards.

It’s interesting to note that dogs are always susceptible to worms because of the rooting around and scavenging that they do in the course of their daily activity. There are even worms that are spread by fleas and other disgusting insect life, which is yet another reason to avoid insect infestations. Dogs’ preoccupation with all things feces also predisposes them to exposure to all sorts of nasty things (sort of like little kids.) The difference with dogs is that they seem to have much hardier immune systems than humans- at least in regard to infectious disease- and digestive systems that can metabolize almost anything.

Lilo (and every other dog on the planet) might consider cat poop to be the highest of rare delicacies, but she won’t eat lettuce. Unless it’s soaked in Ranch dressing, that is.

I wonder if the health “benefit” one would gain by losing weight on the tapeworm diet would be negated by the effect of the tapeworms munching on stuff they shouldn’t be munching on. It’s one thing if they’re sharing that chili dog you had for lunch, but quite another if they are making a meal out of your liver, or your brain. I guess the bottom line on weight loss by parasite is that it’s probably ill advised.

As far as burning up calories the old fashioned way, a rousing round of housecleaning can do that. Even though it can count as exercise, I hate cleaning. I consider exercise to be a necessary evil also. I don’t like it, but I also don’t like the prospect of my ass being as big as the front end of my car. I don’t want to be the one trolling through the Newark WalMart in search of size 20 underwear.

These could also be a car cover for my Yaris. Just sayin’.

The problem with cleaning, in my house, is that it is an ongoing effort in futility. Jerry can destroy hours’ worth of scrubbing and cleaning in one drunk-n-stupid episode, as was evidenced last night. All he has to do is get good and besnookered, go out to “water the garden” at dusk, and then traipse back on in the house, flopping about, soaking wet with dog shit caked on his shoes.

Let me fling poo on your linoleum! YAY!!

Yes! My purpose in life has been fulfilled- scraping dog shit off of the linoleum in the foyer, and then in the kitchen (thank God I got to him before he made it to the carpet, which I had also just scrubbed and cleaned Saturday) and then getting to (joy and rapture) scrape the dog shit off his old-man velcro shoes and hose them down. Then I got to peel his wet and dirty clothes off the bathroom floor, and had to clean the floor up too. Never mind that I had scrubbed down and mopped the foyer, the kitchen and the bathroom on Saturday. Apparently I needed to do it again.

I would hire cleaning people. If I could afford them- and if I wouldn’t be embarrassed at what they might encounter.

I have found beer cans in places where beer cans should never go. Beer cans next to the toilet (why not just eliminate the middle man and pour the Natties right on down the john?) Beer cans in his underwear drawer. Once I even found a beer can in the litter box, which is making me wonder if Jerry is going down there (the cat boxes are in the basement) and helping the dogs sample the recycled feline buffet. If it were only beer cans, it wouldn’t be so bad, but Jerry’s filth parade goes far beyond beer cans.

Jerry is also an incorrigible smoker. If he removes a cellophane from a cig pack, it ends up where it lands- on the table, on the floor, in a house with a mouse- wherever, as long as it’s not in the trash. The cellophanes are just the tip of the iceberg, not to mention the bane of all vacuum cleaners, especially when encountered in combination with copious amounts of dog hair. Jerry also has essential tremor, so the world is his ashtray, literally. That’s part of the reason why it pisses me off so much when he smokes in my car. I don’t think he can actually make the ashes land in the ashtray, (in the car or at home) and I’m doing good when he actually puts the butts out in the ashtray instead of (acck, acck, acck) the toilet (bad enough) or in the sink. Removing nicotine stains from porcelain is just so much fun. I need just such a hobby.

It’s just depressing to spend an entire Saturday cleaning and the place is trashed again by Monday night.

Some more enlightened souls may ask, “Doesn’t Jerry do his share of the cleaning?” I know that there are some men who understand the importance of helping with errands, cleaning and stuff like that when their wives also work. However, the fact that I don’t have 24/7 to fetch stuff for, clean up after, and cook for His Nibs does not register with Jerry. Not at all. He was raised by wolves. He willingly wallows in squalor as long as it means he doesn’t have to think about where the beer cans, cig pack cellophanes, or dog shit lands.

So forgive me if I’m no Martha Stewart.

I can cook, but you can leave the decorating and cleaning to people who don’t live with Jerry.

Happy Birthday Great-Grandma, Fighting Over Used Shoes, and Other Pointless Endeavors

July 10, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Great-Grandma couldn’t stand Ted Kennedy, or any of the Kennedy family for that matter.

Happy birthday to my great-grandma, who would have been 114 today, if she hadn’t died in 1992 at the age of 94. I miss Grandma. She was cool. I would give almost anything for just one more afternoon of coffee and conversation with her, but you get what you get. I’m just glad that she lived close and I was able to spend as much time with her as I did. Besides having a taste for insanely strong coffee and for discussing conservative politics, she had a collection of tabloids that would boggle the mind. She always claimed to read them for the entertainment value. I read them for the entertainment value too, especially the Weekly World News.

The John Deere hat is a nice touch.

Grandma also had a framed, signed picture of President Reagan which I am sure one of the twins (my grandmother’s evil identical twin sisters) ended up with. I can’t believe the twins (who were in their early 70s at the time) had an out and out knock-’em-down, yank each other’s hair out, fist fight over her stuff. Besides some clothes and a few nice pairs of size 8 shoes, the Reagan picture was probably the only thing she owned that had any monetary value. If I know my twin great-aunts (and one of them is still alive-though the one who had the stroke died about five years ago) they were fighting over the shoes. They wore size 8s too.

I have a strong shoe fetish myself- but even should they be size 7s, I’m not fighting anyone for used shoes.

My twin great-aunts’ altercation over a few pairs of used shoes and a whole lot of worthless kitsch convinced me once and for all: I don’t need dead people’s stuff. My sisters can have it all. I am just curious when I die (they are slightly older than me, but they are much better preserved, and will most certainly outlive me) if they will brawl over my used underwear (the bras won’t fit either one of them- unless they add a little extra stuffins,) and not a few pairs of size 7 shoes that only one of them can wear. The oldest, who was my sadistic childhood nemesis, does well to fit her behemoth meaty feet into an 8EEE. The other sister also wears a 7B, and therefore, my shoes fit her.

I’ll cut out the middleman and just put my old skivvies on E-Bay now.

Or, better yet, I could E-Bay Jerry’s nasty old whitey-tighties, after he’s worn them for a night of gambling, drinking and the Hershey Squirts:

Of course, there’s a dude who’s already thought of using what appears to be a soiled set of whitey-tighties as a safe. I can sort of understand the mentality, though I would struggle with the temptation to pick out the cash and then toss the skivvies.

The replacement fridge is up and running quite nicely as of this morning. The ice is frozen and Jerry’s Natties are cold. Spuds is in the G&R, and all is right with the world.

The G&R still has the most awesome fried bologna sandwiches. And cream pies. And an original late ’80’s Spuds McKenzie.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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