gratuitous self pity

Killing Me With Country Music, Bad Tats, and Civility is Dead

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I am not a fan of country music.  Ironically, many country musicians espouse political and social views that are similar to mine, and for that reason alone I’d like to show their art a little love, but there’s something about that music genre in general that makes me want to projectile vomit, cry, and drive my car off a bridge all at the same time.

I don’t know if my loathing is born out of being trained in classical voice- it might be hard for some to imagine, but I enjoy opera and have actually performed a few arias in my time.  The most important part of classical training isn’t so much about style as it is control- learn the control and you can adapt to any style.    I also enjoy rock and heavy metal (especially the more orchestral types of rock/metal) and have been known to (long time ago) cover everything from Rush to the Scorpions to Stevie Nicks and even some Led Zeppelin.  I have a broad vocal range so I can get away with pretty much any style I want.  I actually enjoy most music (except for rap, which is simply loud drug-induced glorification of cop-killing and sister-raping) including some country-related genres such as bluegrass (as long as they don’t sing) and blues and jazz.  I even find David Allan Coe hilarious, mostly because his music is gloriously politically incorrect and he will lampoon anything, but start in with the “achy, breaky heart” stuff and you lost me.

Unfortunately, Jerry adores the country music that I can tolerate the least- the really old time twangy, sad sap songs about dead dogs and Momma gettin’ drunk and Daddy beatin’ all the youngin’s.   He likes to crank it up when he’s wasted, which is usually at night when I’m at least attempting to get some sleep.   This is not the country music that is a bit less odious, the kind you can almost mistake for pop.  It’s the kind of music that if you play it backward you get your truck back, your old lady back, the train un-runs over Momma, and you end up with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s in the bargain.  I can’t stand it.  I’ve tried to make myself tolerate it, but the love’s just not there.  Maybe you have to get drunk to appreciate it.  The only way I can appreciate it is when it’s turned off.

Something about that “Achy, Breaky Heart” song makes my IQ drop just thinking about it.

When I worked in some of the rural dealerships I had a few techies who insisted on blaring that awful stuff out in the shop.  I responded by cutting the breaker to their power strips so their jamboxes wouldn’t work.   Once they figured that out, I came in early and re-tuned all their jamboxes to the classical station.  Classical music in general (but especially Mozart) is good for the analytical mind, and some of those six-fingered yokels could use a little help with that.  At least after my re-tuning the oat opera lovers decided that they would humor the old bitty and listen to the Oak Ridge Boys,  Hank Williams, and Boxcar Willie with headphones.

It seems that the only people group out there that is acceptable to lampoon these days is the Redneck Nation.  Perhaps my distaste of Waylon Jennings, et al is a way of distancing myself from my redneck heritage.  I have to admit though, that I’m not that far removed from the trailer park.  Poor white folks are poor white folks after all.  I may not care much for NASCAR, (stock car racing has to be the most inane “sport” ever) either, but at the end of the day, yeah, I still believe in God, the US Constitution, guns, and guts.  The alternatives to those aren’t panning out so well.

I also refuse to get tattooed.  I’ve played around with the thought of having eyeliner tattooed on but I don’t like the thought of someone getting that close to my eyeballs with a needle.  I have a lot of friends with tats, and as far as I’m concerned, to tat or not to tat is a personal decision.  I still envision those horrid monstrosities- really bad sailor’s tattoos- on my Grandpa’s forearms.  I can’t imagine they looked good when he had them done when he was 18 and in the Navy- in 1943.  In 2006, when he was in the assisted living center, right before he died, they were positively frightening.  I knew there was a reason why he wore long sleeved shirts, carefully buttoned at the wrists, even in high summer.  He was a railroad executive for many years after he had served in the Navy- and didn’t want anyone to know he had those horrid tats.    That would be my luck.  I would end up with something positively embarrassing and hideous, like my best friend in high school who had her boyfriend’s name (Ray) tattooed across her back in huge letters.  When she broke up with him, his name was still there, to remind God and everyone.  I suggested to her that she modify her back and add the letters BESTOS- and see if she can get paid to advertise brake pads.  That got me a punch in the arm.

I find it hard to imagine this dude ever finding gainful employment, unless he can wear a ski mask, or keep the bag on his head all day.

It used to be that people had some manners.  Not anymore.  I can play that game too, and in some ways I do.  The next time Jerry decides to drop a load when I’m brushing my teeth (we only have one bathroom- acck!) and neglects to flush and spray, so my toothpaste ends up tasting like “shit with a hint of mint,” I’m going to leave some dog bombs under the seat in his truck.  And I’ll set all the presets on the truck stereo from “Country Torture 105” to the classical station too, since he doesn’t know how to change them.

Country is to music like Homer Simpson in a muu-muu is to fashion.  Humorous and nauseating at the same time.

Creative Use of Free Speech and Feminine Hygiene Items!

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Every time I go up north I get some kind of culture shock, whether it be the chick in the 5X snowman print jammies (with the thong strap hanging out) attempting to single-mouthedly devour an entire Taco Bell, or the dude in the Walmart with a face full of piercings, and arms covered in various white supremacist tats that I wish I had been able to get a picture of but I didn’t have the courage.  I always get to see the cutting edge of redneck culture when I visit my parents, and this weekend did not disappoint. 

Dad did wonder why I wanted a picture of that, until I blew it up and he could read what was written on the Kotex.  Then he had to acknowledge that it was funny, and worth taking a pic.  I am glad that Steve-o never put Sharpie + maxi pad together when he was going through his Puberty Demon visitation.  I am sure he would have left Kotex commentary everywhere.   I know he covered one of his buddy’s cars in them once, but they must not have had a Sharpie handy.

I can think of better pranks, but this one is fairly harmless.

One of my favorite things about digital cameras is just how easy it is to point, click, upload and share.  I know the guys at work have been begging me to get a video camera for the longest time so they can observe Jerry’s antics, but I can’t dig it up in that little emotional stub I have in place of a heart to do it.  Just because it is potential YouTube gold doesn’t mean it’s very nice to film it.  Admittedly, after last night’s oat opera episode I did feel like getting some sweet, sweet revenge, but I plugged in the Skullcandys (they have some really nice noise cancelling headphones) and enjoyed some favorites from the 80s instead.  I don’t know why, but when Jerry gets into his “I wanna crank up bad country music” mode, he goes for the twangiest, most god-awful country station in the area.  Even when I used to get shitfaced (and this was years and years ago)  I can’t think of a time when I was ever shitfaced enough to enjoy Boxcar Willie- or Willie Nelson for that matter. 

Fanny, my behemoth wandering feline, is adjusting much better to her collar, bell and ID tag than I thought she would.  I did get a few days’ worth of stink-eye out of it (and cats are masters of the stink-eye) but once it got through her head that the collar wasn’t coming off she has gone into normal Fanny mode which is, “aw, what the hell, as long as I get food.”  I should also say catnip, because she goes apeshit over that.  Every cat I’ve ever had except Forrest (and he had major Issues) has positively adored the stuff.  Isabel rolls and thrashes in it, as does Fluffy-Butt, but Fanny (who normally is not a fighter) will swat the other two away and actually attempt to box them.  It’s hilarious to watch.

It’s almost sad that I’m reminded of poor Forrest.  He was half-Siamese and had the most beautiful blue eyes.  However, the poor guy also had feline herpes, and had been kicked in the face by his previous owner, so he had a broken jaw that never healed right, and most of his teeth were missing.  Feline herpes is not a social disease in the way we think of social diseases in humans.  It is a disease that can be prevented with a vaccine, but the vaccine has to be given before the cat gets herpes for it to be effective.  The herpes infection is present in many cats that never show symptoms, but for some cats, like Forrest, it weakens their immune systems and predisposes them to wicked eye and respiratory infections.  The first time he got sick he was dehydrated, blowing snot, had to get sub-cu fluids (this is not a fun process) and had to be force fed with a syringe.  Then he had to take the l-lysine supplement for the rest of his life, which did give him several years until he got sick again and he died almost as soon as he got sick the second time.  Poor guy was only 12, which isn’t all that old for a cat, but he had suffered a lot before we got him, and he had a weak constitution.

Oh, well.  Poor Forrest.  And yes, he was named after Forrest Gump, because when we first got him he was terrified of everything and it seemed all he did was run.

Dubious Distinctions, Freud Would Have a Field Day, and It’s Cougar Pool Time Again

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I have not set up the Cougar Pool again, but I have everything ready to go- chlorine, shock, a brand new floatie, and a new filter kit.  I do not swim – at least I don’t dare dunk my head- in unchlorinated water.  I learned the lesson long, long ago when I got a wicked as hell ear infection from swimming at one of the reservoirs.   I should be thankful the water in the reservoirs is chlorinated before it ends up coming through my faucet if it’s that filthy.  I might go to a public beach at the reservoir, and I may consider wading, but I sure as hell am not dunking my head.  Never again.  I like the Cougar Pool water to be crystal clear and Ph perfect.  That way if I do want to dunk my head- or if I fall off the floatie- it’s all cool.  I shouldn’t catch any diseases at least.

So as soon as I clean off the back patio and make sure Jerry hasn’t left anything sharp lying around, it will be ready to go. I should know that Central Ohio in May is generally still Monsoon Season, and that the temperature still hasn’t quite stabilized at Stygian Heat yet.  We don’t put in vegetable plants until those two weeks or so between May 15 and Memorial Day for that reason.  It can snow in May.  Jerry will be a busy little camper with planting next week, but this week it’s supposed to rain and temperatures will only be in the 70’s at best.

Highs at 80° and above (somewhat consistently) are required to use the Cougar Pool.  There’s no heater, so if temperatures dip into the 50s at night, that will be one frigid pool the next day even with the greenhouse effect of the sun and the pool cover.

Isabel is 5# of all black feline sweetness- when she’s not being evil, that is.

I have to wonder about some of my dreams lately.  I think that I’m going to have to close the bedroom door so I don’t wake up to Isabel chewing on my hair again.  I don’t know why she does that, but it’s highly annoying.  Generally Clara and/or Lilo, and all the cats are quite welcome on the bed.  Sheena doesn’t attempt to get on the beds because her bad hips do not allow her to jump high enough, which is fine with me, because she lacks the precise motor skills the other dogs have.

Maybe Sheena’s a total klutz because she has no hip sockets, and the ball portions of her femurs just sort of free-float.

Even if it’s not painful- and it probably is- such a condition can’t allow for terribly fluid movement, but Sheena is what Sheena is.  Sheena usually simply flops at the side of the bed and splays out on the floor, occasionally grunting and snoring, but she’s a sound sleeper.  Clara and Lilo both are attentive to every little noise, and sleep very lightly, but when Sheena’s out, she’s out.  The cats usually simply curl up and purr and sleep and don’t give me any trouble.  Usually when the cats get annoying at night, it’s because their food bowl is empty, but I had filled the cats’ food bowl and the water bowl before I went to bed.  So who knows what Isabel’s problem was last night, but I really don’t need to have dreams of assorted men-I-think-are-hot chewing on my hair.

I really don’t think (at least I hope not) that Neal Schon would really want to chew on my hair (ewwwww) and spy on me in the shower.  I really don’t think any man alive would really want to do either of those things, (and one that would want to do either of those things would scare the hell out of me,) but dreams are weird.  When the old man puts a bottle nipple on a Heineken so he can drink beer whilst horizontal, well, that’s scary too.  Fortunately that too was a dream.  Jerry would never dream of drinking anything more highbrow than Bud Light, he doesn’t like beer in the bottle anyway, and if he could remain horizontal whilst drinking beer, he’d never leave the bed.

I was thinking about it this morning and realized I have the most bizarre luck.  It’s not necessarily bad, it’s not necessarily good- but my life seems to be an ode to Murphy’s Law.

1.  If I am “lucky” enough to get the last of a highly sought item, it will either be broken, missing pieces, or entirely not the thing pictured on the box.  I really couldn’t use *and should have checked, shame on me* the “last” pair of  size 7 sandals, on the clearance rack that I really wanted, only to get home and discover that there was one 7 and one 9 in the box.   I may be ill-proportioned, and the instep on my right foot is slightly higher than the left, but both feet are generally happy in a size 7.  9 is way the fark too big even for my higher-instepped right foot.   Bastards.  But, I should have checked.

2. If I remember to bring the DS when I have something boring to do that potentially involves sitting and waiting, I get right in.  If I forget the DS, I will encounter every imaginable delay and will get to spend an eternity either immersed in the abyss of daytime TV or buried in vapid, aged, so-called women’s magazines.   I don’t really get into too many periodicals.  At least the Vet has some good ones- Dog Fancy, Cat Fancy, and various scientific and veterinary journals and such.  But I really can’t take Glamour, People, Good Housekeeping or any of those “parenting” magazines.   That crud makes me want to vomit.   The good gossip rags ended when they stopped printing the Weekly World News.   That was Great-Grandma’s favorite gossip paper, even though she subscribed to them all for the entertainment value, and for the hope that they would lampoon Ted Kennedy yet again.  She really despised Ted Kennedy. WWN is still available online, but you have to have Internet access, and most Dr.s offices and such do not have free wi-fi.  It is nice to know, however, that someone is keeping track of who has the World’s Biggest Butt.  That piece of knowledge could be important.

3. I probably have more medical anomalies than 99% of the population.  While this makes me really popular when I’m in a medical setting, it can make my healthcare become a real circus.  I have had medical students, nursing students, ophthalmology students, phlebotomy students, you name it, get to observe my bizarre body as a instructional exercise.  Usually I don’t mind, because hey, maybe something about my bizarreness might benefit the cause of science, but sometimes it’s a bit off-putting.  The medical student who freaked out at being shown my CT scan before I had sinus surgery was priceless.  He stood there next to my family Dr., wide eyed, simply saying, “OH MY GOD, how does this poor woman stay standing???”  Not very well, I assure you.  It was even more fun when I went to the cardiologist for an echocardiogram several years ago, and of course, it was his day for the medical students.  They glared  at my beating heart on the monitor (which was kind of cool to watch,) as the Dr. (who seemed as excited as a kid in a candy store,) informed them, “This is classic rheumatic heart disease.  You usually don’t get to see this outside of the third world,”  as he pointed out my two damaged heart valves.  Special.  He also said that I probably won’t need them replaced until I’m 75 or so.  If I live that long, that is.  This doctor obviously didn’t know that for all intents and purposes I did grow up in the third world.   Just like Deliverance, only without the benefit of mountains or banjos.

Now, class, don’t put ’em in the bed like this. They might snap their necks, and that would make us look bad.

Glow In the Dark Monstrosities, Medical Fun and Total Hemorrhoidal Takeover!

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If I see these things in someone’s yard, I’m reporting an alien invasion, because that’s what these bastards look like.

What would you have to be smoking to want these in your yard?  I found this ad while I was trolling through the newspaper coupons.  Some of the shit being hawked in those circulars is even worse than the “As Shown on TV” garbage.  At least the “Easy Feet” thing is useful for old and/or lazy people.  It does something.  It has a purpose, even if only to scrub some geezer’s bunions.  The meerkats only look strange and make your neighbors wonder if you’ve been getting in the cat’s catnip stash again.

Clean feets is happy feets!

I can ‘t think of any good reason to have glow-in-the-dark meerkats in my flowerbed.   Even though the mail order crap mixed in with the coupons was pretty nasty, there were some good coupons this week – especially the $2 off Nice-N-Easy and $2 off Venus razors coupons. Both items are things I will always have need for, and will definitely have need for before the coupons expire.  There were some coupons for Charmin too, which is nice.  Jerry goes through enough toilet paper to deforest the Amazon, but it’s amazing to find a man who uses toilet paper to begin with, so I try not to complain.   I occasionally buy the Charmin Basic if it’s on sale, even though Jerry complains that any TP other than Angel Soft aggravates his ‘roids.

Personally I think the ‘roids are taking over.  One day he’s going to go to the Dr. and I’ll get a call telling me that there’s nothing left but ‘roids.  Today has been one of those days where he has been nothing but a huge whiny pain in the ass and it’s almost funny.  It amazes me just how big a pussy he can be.  It really pisses him off when I’m doing something for me (like getting my scripts…) so I’m not readily available to kiss his ass.  Too damned bad.  It is possible to delay your beer drinking by an hour or two to drive your own happy ass over to your buddy’s so you two can shoot the shit.  Why do I have to take you over there and then sit around like a lump of shit (so you can have a ride without waiting for me to come and get you???) watching the two of you get drunk?

I had to go back to the Dr. today and as I suspected, my numbers were dismal but not quite as horrible as I’d imagined.  So I get my dosage on one of my blood pressure meds increased, my insulin increased, and my statin completely changed.  All of which are going to cost me more (which I knew was coming…) but they did give me some insulin pens which are so helpful when it costs me $215 for a script of 5 pens.    Then it’s back for more labs and fun in August.  Yay.  On the bright side the snots seem to be reasonably contained so hopefully my blood sugar and blood pressure will get back to some semblance of normal, now that I can actually sleep.  I just hope that increasing that one blood pressure med doesn’t put me to sleep in the middle of the day.

No, this is not me sleeping.  1.) I am a brunette, and 2.) I snore.  Loudly.  I wake myself up snoring.

I sort of had a sadistic idea for a video game for Jerry- one where the hemorrhoids invade (imagine the epic song “2112” by Rush -go to 20:30-) and when they (the ‘roid invaders of course) win the game ends with the end of “2112” where Alex Lifeson says in that funky voice:

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“Attention, all planets of the Solar Federation!”

“We have assumed control!”

“We have assumed control!”

“We have assumed control!”

Yep, the ‘roids have taken over Uranus.

My sister (not the sadistic oldest one)  is a programmer.  She’s not really a gamer, as her specialty is writing software to control industrial robots, but I’ll still have to ask her if she can build me some kind of fun game like that.

Despair, Venting and Cool 80’s Music

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I’m trying really hard not to fall into the trap of despair.  I know I should be seeing the glass as half full rather than half empty and all that, and I’m responsible for my own attitude.  This being said, I’m trying to stay out of that festering pit of gratituous self pity that I can get mired in if I’m not paying attention.  Chronic depression, the mental disorder that keeps on giving.

I’m dreading my excursion to the Dr. on Monday.  I know that even though I’ve gained some ground in the Snot Wars that whole business has thrown both my blood sugar and blood pressure off whack, and neither of those have gone back down to where they should be.  I really, really can’t afford any more meds and tests and such, and it’s frustrating that I try to do the right things and I’m still screwed.  Sometimes I just wish I could just quit taking all the damned pills and shots and going through all the bullshit and just drop dead, but it’s not that easy.  Knowing my bad luck I’d just turn into a drooling vegetable and/or end up a double amputee or something and then be even more screwed, so I’m not going to take that path.

I’m also quite pissed off about the POMC and the financial aid bullshit he’s going through.  Supposedly he is still a “dependent student” even though a.) he works full time, b.) he pays all his own bills, and c.) is supporting his own child on top of everything else.  Where in the hell did they get this noise that he’s still a “dependent”- he doesn’t live with me and I can’t claim him or his expenses for tax purposes- SO why in the flying effing hell do they need my farking tax information if I”M NOT PAYING FOR HIM?????  Hello?  Obama, you jackass, is this what you call “education reform”- counting a student’s parents’  income  as if it were the student’s, even if the student doesn’t live with and/or isn’t financially supported by his parents so that it’s harder for the kid to get financial aid?   Of course this is his last year of school (YAY!) but every single time the kid has applied for financial aid he- and me by  proxy- has gotten nine kinds of shit.  Why do they have to make it so damned difficult?  Why the hell am I involved at all?  He’s a farking adult!!!!  Is he supposed to be a 21 year old titty baby?   He supports himself and provides a good deal of support for his own kid.  If anyone needs/deserves a break it’s someone like him who is 21 and NOT still leeching off his parents.  Does the government really think it’s a good idea for parents to support their adult children ad infinitum?  Is this their answer for lazy, ill-educated thugs who want everything handed to them and for their parents to cover for them until they’re 40?  It really gets on my freaking nerves.

 

I thought cutting him off the teat once he got teeth was the right thing to do, but apparently the government doesn’t think so!

Anyway, now that I’ve got that venting out of the way, maybe I shouldn’t be quite so pissed.  It could always be worse, but I guess the frustration is that I deal with the same shit over and over and over and it keeps coming back. 

On the bright side, I have been trolling about for even more MP3s for my collection to add to my cloud drive and player.  I was never much of a Rod Stewart fan back in the 80’s- I always thought him a bit too on the mellow side- but I’m enjoying some of his stuff now.  I have a lovely eclectic mix of tunes- mostly because I really can’t stand most of the local radio stations, and I can’t really narrow down all the music I like to one particular genre.  I like classical, I like blues and jazz and funk, and of course I get into rock and metal- especially the orchestral, grandiose rock of the 70’s and 80’s.  Maybe it’s because I played music long ago, and I studied classical voice, that I tend to be a bit fussy and perhaps even a bit highbrow at times.   I wonder if I could remember how to play bass after 15+ years of not playing at all.  I still have a voice and I still have the range (a little over 3 1/2 octaves- alto II through soprano I, believe that) but my age, lack of stamina and constant snots pretty much keep me from doing much more with that besides singing in the car and at church.  Yes I sing it loud and sing it proud in church.  Lutherans can get away with that.  I’m kind of curious to see on Sunday- I have to go to my nephew’s Confirmation- if the Methodists can crank it out. 🙂

I’ve got to get in a better state of mind.  Maybe a few rounds of “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” might help.

All the cool musicians looked better in 1981.

I have a good time with that- until I remember that Rod Stewart is older than my Dad.  Then I get kinda sorta creeped out. 

 

 

 

 

Walk Briskly, and Wear Rubber-Soled Shoes (Life Lesson #1)

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In most things I’m all about practical application.  Having the dubious distinction of having lived and worked with hot-tempered people (and even having worked for a few people with white powder* problems) I have had to learn the art survival skill of subtlety.  This is not a skill that comes naturally.  By nature I am a very literal person, and unless I have a compelling reason to do otherwise, I say what I think.  Even so, I also have a very strong self-preservation instinct.  I learned this from my Dad, who didn’t have mental or chemical problems- but he did have a hot temper and a damned fine aim.  There are some people you just don’t piss off.  He falls into that category.  I got a refresher course on treading lightly when the psycho coke head from hell tried to throttle me in the service drive because our technician took it upon himself to complete some (free) warranty work on his car.

Of course self-preservation trumps most other instincts most of the time.  When I’m at work I do best if I am told what is expected of me and then I’m left alone to get it done.  I do not require micromanagement, and the more autonomy I have, the more I get done.  

I really don’t need any bullshit from the chemically impaired.  I learned very quickly how to spot when one of my former bosses had spent the night with a hooker, some cheap liquor and a LOT of toot-toot.  I learned to make myself very scarce and only respond when spoken to.  This was a guy who could go from being the greatest guy in the world one minute to the world’s biggest prick in 1.2 seconds.  This was the same guy who spent most days in the titty bar while I did his work and he conveniently took the credit (and the hefty bonus checks) for it.  I avoided him like the plague- but especially when he came in while riding the toot-toot train. 

If this dude confronted me when he was like that I would usually get stuck climbing around scrubbing down the tops of parts bins when I had more productive and profitable things that I should be doing, but this dude was anal like that.  I understand that you want your work area to be reasonably clean and organized, but the reality of any sort of automotive parts warehouse – especially a parts department in a dealership that’s right next to the mechanical shop- is that it is neither a surgical unit nor a kitchen and it isn’t going to be that clean.   I had a severe distaste for this kind of time-wasting for two reasons: one, you can scrub and Clorox it down one day and between the exhaust fumes and the techies (who aren’t exactly Mr. Clean) it’s going to be dirty again the next.  It’s an exercise in futility. 

The other reason I hated his little cleaning rants is his behavior reminded me of Mom when she used to go on the manic cleaning rampages.  Mom is bi-polar and when we were kids, unmedicated.  Although she exhibited a lot of the same bizarre behaviors as a coke head on a bender, Mom did not do coke, thank God.  Dad didn’t have that kind of cash, and Mom was far too näive to go trolling for drugs.  Hindsight being 20/20 I wish someone would have had some Valiums or Xanaxs handy when she got on a roll.   I shudder to imagine a bi-polar person in manic phase AND on coke.  Believe it or not the behavior of a bi-polar person in manic phase and of a coke head in full coke rage is remarkably similar.  I’ve had the bad fortune to be the target of both, and it’s taught me how to make myself scarce.

Blending into the wall can be a handy survival skill.  So can walking briskly and wearing rubber-soled shoes.  I find myself doing that a lot lately.  Do my job, flit about from here to there, as quickly and quietly as someone with dismal gross motor skills can, and go along my merry way.  I have to do a lot less explaining, a lot less chatting, and I get sidetracked a lot less if I can just plow right on through.

Thankfully I’ve not had to work for the cocaine addicted for many years.  It’s a bit stressful going to work not knowing if your boss is going to be:

1. At the titty bar/brothel.  This was the best place for him to be, because I didn’t have to deal with him, and since I had to do his job anyway, it was nice to be left alone to do it.  The only bad part was I felt guilty lying to his wife when she called.  I knew damned good and well he wasn’t “in a meeting,” but it was a lot less messy than telling her the truth.  She found out anyway where he’d been going- when she ended up with a rather nasty social disease. 

2. At work.  This was a crap shoot. When he wasn’t jacked up on coke, he was usually OK.  That was the time to corner him for the few things that he had to authorize, etc. although I pretty much could do everything he did- even though I didn’t get the recognition or the compensation for it.  Even if he was coked up he could be decent -unless he started getting paranoid or something (and that could be anything) pissed him off.  Then he could go from your best buddy to the guy who’s having a screaming tirade about dust bunnies behind the oil filters.

3. Sick.  It was really bad if this dude came to work “sick,” because here was a dude who could turn a hangnail into a Shakespearian tragedy.  And on top of being the world’s biggest coke head, this dude was the world’s biggest hypochondriac.  I swear he asked me to inspect bumps on his scalp and arms (ewwwwwwwww!!!) and creepiness like that.  Yeah, you hired me to inspect your zits and dandruff.  Acck.  I am NOT a doctor.  I am NOT any kind of health professional.  If you are in doubt, stay home, quarantine yourself, or just skip the middle man.  Call 911 and have them take your ass to the ER.  Ironically, he didn’t say anything to me about the symptoms of the social disease that he (and his now ex-wife) had to go get shots and such for.  Go figure.  I hope it fell off.

I have to say I was delighted when I was offered alternative employment far, far away from this dude.  However, the life lesson that the hot-heads, bi-polar, and chemically enhanced people in my life have taught me still stands.  It is better to lurk quietly in the shadows and avoid attention than to be singled out and browbeaten. 

*white powder=cocaine

Examples of What Not to Do, Inner City Wildlife, and The Bright Side of Life

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I am never going to be one of those people who runs around spouting sunshine out of my nether aperture.  It just isn’t going to happen unless someone waves a magic wand and I’m suddenly permanently hairless in all the right places, that I’m about 5’9″ with perfect proportions, that I’m independently wealthy and can do what I want, Reagan is alive and well and back in the White House, and that I’m suddenly free from all of my various and sundry health afflictions. 

I am a perfectionist, but I’m also a realist. I know that nothing in the above list is ever going to happen to me in this lifetime.  I’m cool with that, but not because I like it.  I’m cool with that because I’m thankful that the sources of my discontent are so trivial.  Of course I am troubled by many other broader issues, but most of them are things for which I’ve done what I could and/or have very little power to change. 

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There are things that will not change for the better – current popular music, the rate at which my eyebrows go from finely sculptured to Sasquatch-like uni-brow,  the frequency and duration of Jerry’s whining episodes, etc.- no matter how much I wish they would.  The challenge in life is navigating around the Murphy’s Law outcomes and working within the parameters you get.  I may not have gotten the best box of chocolates, but I didn’t get the worst one either.  More importantly, as the esteemed philosopher Mick Jagger once noted, “You can’t always get what you want/ you can try sometimes/ you just might find/ you get what you need.”  Sometimes I really have to wonder about that, especially when what I get arrives packaged appearing as anything but a gift- but those who have everything handed to them without any blood, sweat or tears often have very little appreciation for what they have.

I guess I was supposed to get the box of chocolates with a lot of icky tasting maple and pecan ones in it- the one with the cellophane partially missing and the corners all bashed in, that’s marked down on clearance once the holiday’s over.  Even though someone else got the primo one with all the good dark chocolate and mint creams in it, I still got more than what I deserved.  Some people just get an empty box, or show up after all the clearance boxes have been sold.

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It’s only human to take a look around and observe (and feel a little jealous toward) the beautiful people. Knowing that the beautiful people aren’t always so lovely- in and out of each other’s beds and/or in and out of rehab and such- is a sort of cold comfort. 

A good friend of mine (who I need to call and have a nice long chat with- yes dammit-) once said that money can’t buy happiness but it does buy the misery you like the best.  I have to wonder how much damage I would end up doing if I had the resources to do exactly what I wanted all the time.  I know I would end up telling a good number of people to f-off and die – and I probably should do that with a few people in my life- but I’d go overboard.  I’d end up alienating everyone who ever had the audacity to piss me off, and that’s just about every human I’ve ever come in contact with.

If I weren’t forced to leave my ivory tower and interact with the unpredictable world I’d never be treated to such spectacles as the Canada goose who likes to hang out in front of the door at work. Right here in the middle of Little Mogadishu!  (Just like Blackhawk Down but with fewer helicopters.)  

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Of course if the coyotes can survive thrive here (the beautiful Central Ohio area is known for its urban coyotes) so can the geese.  From what I see in the article the coyotes are actually eating some of the goose eggs, which most people should consider to be a good thing.  Canada geese are pretty, but they do crap a LOT, and when there are too many of them they can get aggressive too. 

Obstacles and adversity and unavoidable unpleasantries force us to deal with the things we’d rather not.  I don’t enjoy waiting and I don’t enjoy crowds, but I’ve met interesting people and had enlightening conversations I would never have had if I had done everything online or on demand.  I could see myself- if I had virtually limitless wealth and therefore power- becoming like Howard Hughes- isolated and trapped in a hell of my own design.  I think everyone has to be forced into doing certain things they find distasteful in order to really enjoy the important things.  I appreciate being able to watch Ren and Stimpy episodes every once in awhile, but I think I’d get bored with them if that’s all I did 24/7.

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By the grace of God I’ve managed to steer clear of the criminal justice system for the most part.  I say by the grace of God because I know how evil I have the potential to be.  I believe that anyone can become a killer in the heat of passion, or fall for the wrong scheme, or be in the wrong place at the right time. 

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Full body tats are never a good idea- especially when you’re on your way to jail.

I don’t think Cadillac was looking for that kind of endorsement (his neck tat is a Cadillac crest) from a guy who ended up shooting and killing his ex-girlfriend.  I can’t say how he ended up this way but it sort of breaks my heart that someone born in 1988 (I was in college in 1988…) could have already screwed up his life so bad.  I know there’s hope but prison isn’t a nice place, and he’s likely going to be there for awhile.

I am thankful for a number of things, just a sampling are listed here:

I’m thankful…

That I’m not in prison.  That would definitely suck.  Especially because I’m straight and can’t fight.

For my beautiful dogs and cats.  Even though Fanny is really pissed about wearing her collar, bell and tag, she’ll get over it.  I’ll get a pic of that as soon as she will let me get close enough with the camera again.

For remotely understanding friends and family who have no idea what it’s like to live the way I’m wired- but who put up with my eccentricity anyway.

For going on almost three years of freedom from my 18 year long nightmare with pelvic pain. One thing I will stress about that- I don’t want to see any woman suffer through what I did for all those years.  There is help available if you persist and speak up.  (Here’s where I am another example of What Not to Do.)

For indoor plumbing.  For those who have experienced the unique olfactory joy (not to mention the company of the various insect and arachnid life that take up residence in the outdoor shitter) of an outhouse or outdoor latrine, you get where I’m coming from.   Two weeks of traipsing back and forth from the tent to the latrine in the middle of the night with naught but a flashlight and a roll of TP at Girl Scout Camp were more than enough to convince me that I prefer performing my excretory functions inside, on a flush toilet, with the light on.  Camping means (at the very least) “where’s the RV” to me- and in a perfect world, at least a two star hotel.

For not having to own, be seen in, or pay for the gasoline for this:

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Snot Wars! (Why I Shouldn’t Write Science Fiction) and More Observations of the Unwashed

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Americans are obsessed with hygiene.  For the most part that’s a good obsession unless you go overboard with it, as my friend Sheena (not my mentally challenged Husky mix, but another Sheena) points out.  There’s a difference between showering daily, brushing and flossing one’s teeth twice a day, using a good mouthwash, putting on clean clothes every morning, and going around huffing mothballs or picking strange people’s hair out of bathtub drains.  I don’t know where TLC finds the weirdos for the My Strange Addiction show.   Maybe back in the ’80’s  I should have gotten help for my Steve Perry obsession and my excessive use of Aquanet, but I think both of those addictions were pretty much considered normal back then.  We didn’t have all the interesting stuff to do back then.  Cable TV meant you had 13 channels.  Dad always sprang for HBO so we had movies too, but even TV wasn’t the 24/7 freak fest that is available today. No COPS, no World’s Dumbest, no pecker pump infomercials.   There was no Internet (at least not for the unwashed masses) back in 1986.  The only computers I’d ever used back then were highly unreliable, had less memory than most of today’s cell phones, there was no such thing as Windows, and the disc drive was a cassette tape.   Cell phones were only for the mega-rich, and even then they had almost no range- and were tethered to the inside of a car. 

Today I could see myself overloading on Chanel #5 for example, but that stuff smells good, and not having much of a sense of smell, I tend to load up a bit heavy on cologne if I’m not careful.  I still have a bit of the Steve Perry obsession, but even an old cougar has to have some sort of fantasy life.

I might have impossible dreams about an older guy who is likely not nearly as hot as he was back in 1981 or thereabouts, but I’m not as bad as Anna Nicole-

Love? or Money?  Ewww!

It’s one thing to have fantasies about a guy who’s 20 years older than me who was incredibly hot 30 years ago.  It’s quite another to suck face with a guy who’s 50 years older than me and who was never hot, but has a lot of cash.  Then again, I don’t know how much money it takes to make it acceptable to suck face with a pruny, toothless old dude.  I hope I never have to figure that one out.

I find it incredibly icky on the occasions I have to snake my own bathtub and/or bathroom sink drains.  I know it’s probably not terribly environmentally sound, but I’d rather run the DRANO through them before they get to the point where the only way the tub will drain is if I snake out gobs and gobs of unspeakable smelly hair tangled up in pasty goopy blecch- and then still have to run the DRANO through. There is nothing I would find addicting about either snaking the drains or running the DRANO through them, unless it would be the end result of actually having shower water and/or toothbrushing leavings make it down the drains.

I am at least reaching a point of detenté in the Snot Wars.  I found this really cool stuff called Sinus Plumber that pretty much does exactly what it says.   I am generally skeptical of anything that claims to be “all natural-” just because it’s all natural does not mean a product is either safe or effective.   I could put some all natural fire up my nose and I don’t think that would be either safe or effective.  I can think of a good number of all-natural lethal things- cyanide, arsenic, snake venom, shark bites, Ebola, the list goes on and on.  However, the Sinus Plumber stuff does work.  It does burn a slight bit, but it also leaves one with the refreshing scent of wintergreen- and a lot less snot. 

I also do the sinus rinse twice a day.  It isn’t fun but it does rinse out a lot of the snot and it does rinse out a lot of the things that I’m likely allergic to.

Then to add to the adventure, and to increase the possibility of some relief for my interminable snots, I’ve been taking the 24 hour generic Allegras (fexofenadine) which seem to be- after a couple of weeks of taking them every day- working better than the Claritin-Ds. 

I still have to sleep at about a 45° angle to keep from choking, but at least now I’m sleeping, which is an improvement.  My outlook is getting better with the more shut-eye I can muster. I think I’ve moved beyond wanting to throttle anyone today, or falling asleep at my desk, but it’s only 1:30.

I had to take Steve-o to the Walmart (not the Walmart of the infamous Quest for Pennzoil- this one is Marion)  to cash a check Saturday (long story) which meant that we had to go to the Customer Service Desk (Customer Torture Area is more like it.)  To be fair, this Walmart is less odious than most in that the team members speak English (at least the redneck dialect thereof) as a first language.  When we got to the desk the fan was running and the poor cashier had her turtleneck pulled up over her nose.

“Man, I’m not trying to be rude, but the guy in here before you really reeked!,” the poor girl mumbled through her shirt, “It’s so bad I can taste that nasty!”

He got his check cashed, and I wished her a better smelling rest of the day.

I really felt bad for her.  When I worked in rural Chevy dealerships we dealt with hog farmers (or should I call them pork producers?) who would come in to buy stuff for their trucks- whilst still knee deep in pig shit.  There are few things (that I can smell) that smell bad enough and strong enough to make me want to puke, but pig shit is one of them.   The only reason I can think of as to why they didn’t at least change their boots before going out in public is that being a hog farmer, one probably gets to the point where pig shit no longer smells.  Thankfully I kept a big old bottle of Lysol spray behind the counter and then as soon as they left I would douche the place thoroughly with it.  Maybe that’s where the idea to use Lysol cleaner for feminine hygiene came from.  I certainly hope not, but it wouldn’t surprise me. 

This should not be confused with

This!

I do know of a few people for whom the Lysol cleaner-as-body-wash might not be a bad idea though.  It does get the crusty shit off the linoleum floors pretty good.

 

 

I Love My Dogs (In a Totally Non-Creepy Way)

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It’s probably more stressful for me to take my dogs to the Vet than it is for them to go.  Clara doesn’t even notice when she gets shots.  Lilo can be fidgety but usually isn’t too weird about it as long as I hold her head against my chest so she can’t get snippy.  Both of the girls (Sheena is on a different schedule than the other two) were as good as dogs can be last night.

Granted both Clara and Lilo are edging up into “senior” territory which is a difficult reality for me to get through my head.  Clara is 9, Lilo is 8, almost 9.  I have had dogs live almost 16 years- Kayla would probably have lived even longer had we not decided to put her down when her DM (Degenerative Myelopathy) got so bad she was having trouble controlling her bowels and bladder.  That really sucked, especially for a dog whose healthy weight was about 90#.  I couldn’t carry her out, and eventually it got to the point where she didn’t know when she needed to go and then she’d  just let fly which was humiliating to her and difficult for us.  Kayla was otherwise healthy- except for the damned DM keeping her from being able to control her bathroom functions and use her rear legs.  Unfortunately dogs don’t die from DM- but if they are left to die a “natural death,” they die from the pneumonia and heart failure brought on by inactivity.

Because Clara and Lilo both are crossbreeds and not purebred GSDs, it’s unlikely they will get DM like Kayla and Heidi both did.  I am generally not a believer in “hybrid vigor,” but the likelihood of genetic disease is lower in mixed breed dogs.  Heidi had other issues besides DM, though nine years of very poor care before we got her didn’t help.  I doubt if I will ever have another purebred GSD for that reason- the American bloodlines are repositories for every wicked genetic disease under the sun- but who knows.  I love the protection breeds.

In this pic, Clara (top) was a thin and lanky two year old- Kayla (bottom) was a healthy and active 14 year old.   Kayla did wonders developing Clara’s confidence.

Lilo I know has hip dysplasia, but hers is mild, which is a workable condition for most dogs.  Lilo and Clara both have allergies that seem to get worse as they age. Lilo has seborrhea,  and Clara is prone to lick granulomas which are generally not life-threatening but are aesthetically unpleasant.    Sheena has severe hip dysplasia and she has completely destroyed her canine teeth and incisors from cage biting.  Both of these conditions  will probably cause issues as she ages.

Sheena does have issues, but she’s a sweet dog.

The sad truth of having dogs is that they age a lot faster than we do.  I love senior dogs as they are usually a lot more laid back than their younger counterparts and they are confident in their routines.  I was thrilled to take Heidi in at the age of 9- partially because we had just lost Kayla, but also because I enjoy senior dogs and their mellowness.  I was thankful that Heidi had a good three years with us, but it broke my heart to see her go at the relatively young age of  12.

Heidi was always grateful for everything.

I can take Clara anywhere.  She and I have an understanding which is hard to describe, but I know I have a deeper appreciation for her and her gentle, intuitive nature, especially after she was hit by a truck and almost killed two and a half years ago.

When Clara had the stitches- and the seroma- after she was hit by a truck, she had to wear t-shirts to keep from messing with it.  She was not amused.

Lilo is also very mellow and easy to handle, especially for a dreaded “Chow mix,” but that mellowness has taken years to cultivate.  Sheena (about 4 years old now) is not as confident or as obedient as the other two are now.  But Clara had a lot of “puppiness” to her when I got her as a thin and somewhat spooked two year old, and Lilo had her special little “Chowtude” and didn’t want to trust anyone when she first came to us.  Kayla scared her, and Clara just wanted to kick her ass.

Lilo is strange in one regard- she actually enjoys wearing clothes.

Perhaps it’s a bit twisted that I hold my dogs in higher esteem than most people, but at the end of the day- there they are.

Humor Me, Breathing is Fundamental, and Anytime is Naptime

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I love it.  My granddaughter is already learning the art of the stink-eye.

I think gradually, ever so painfully slowly, my sorry carcass is beginning to get the picture that drowning me in snot is rather counterproductive.  I’ve been on the Allegras for a little over a week and they do seem to help- that along with the saline rinses (now there’s a really fun activity- spraying salt water up your nose to rinse out your sinuses) and the homeopathic nasal spray made from capsaicin (capsaicin is what makes hot peppers hot) that burns like hell right after you spray it-  but it is effective, and at $11 a bottle, I can afford that. So far it’s working better than the steroid sprays that cost $100 + per script and as an added bonus, can give you glaucoma.  I’ve used the steroid sprays before, and they are effective, but I can’t afford them, and since I’m already at risk for glaucoma, I think I’ll steer clear.

Of course, as always, I have a sick sense of humor, even though it has been temporarily stifled by misery and fatigue.  I hate being so tired, but the word “tired” does not capture the depth of the sloggingly slow, painfully apathetic state I’ve been in.  The snots have subsided enough to allow me at least some sleep- but no matter how much sleep I manage to get I feel like I can always use more.  I hate dragging my ass through life.  I would love to wake up hyper- in a good way- with something fun to do that I actually have the energy for.  Maybe I’ve just been sleep deprived for so long that there’s no possible way for me to catch up. 

I do have to go next week and get my blood drawn for labs.  I wonder if yet again something is out of line with my funky-assed body chemistry. In the past I’ve had fatigue caused by low iron (that shouldn’t be an issue since the hysterectomy,) and low potassium (I have to take a supplement for that.)  I’ve had my thyroid stuff checked in the past and it’s been normal, but Grandpa had low thyroid, and he was virtually narcoleptic over it until the Drs found it and started medicating him for it.  Maybe my thyroid has gone south.  It would not surprise me.  I am the repository for most of my family’s genetically transmitted diseases after all.  I can only hope that if that is what’s making me want to sleep 24/7 that they actually run a thyroid test on my blood.  I have no idea which blood panels my new Dr. is going to run.  If I were him I would run everything known to man, because Murphy’s Law would indicate that I have a greater chance than most of having obscure and bizarre anomalies and diseases, especially if they are inherited. 

As a kid it always pissed me off that the world “wastes” so much time sleeping.  Back in the day I could run on four or five hours’ sleep and be wide awake and ready to go.  Now I can sleep on and off for 10-12 hours and still be dead tired.   Perhaps it is a bit of cosmic justice for being so wired as a kid, or punishment for all those years of chugging coffee, chain-smoking and taking all that mail order speed.  Pseudoephedrine and caffeine pills were easily obtained back in the 80’s and 90’s.  I could stay awake for days. Now I wish I could sleep for days, but even then I’d still wake up dead tired.

Maybe I don’t have enough excitement in my life.  Maybe I had too much excitement earlier on, and I’m so jaded I can’t get enthused about very much.  Then again, the odds of waking up with a hot young stud in my bed are next to none.  I wake up with dogs in my bed, but that’s not quite the same.

Clara manages to get herself in the smallest of spaces to sleep- while the other two dogs like to take up as much surface area as possible.

Here’s Lilo- all stretched out as usual.

Sheena doesn’t even try to get into the beds with her bad hips- but she can sleep on the couch- and just about anywhere else.

I force myself to exercise- 30 minutes a day of strenuous cardio most days- and supposedly that’s supposed to make one more energetic.  It’s done wonders for my upper and lower body strength- but not a damned thing for my energy level.  I can go through a workout and then turn right around and go back to sleep.  I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way but it does for me, and some days it takes everything I have to get through 30 minutes.

I think someone could make a killing if they could find a way for people to workout while they sleep.  Just hook me up to the marathon running machine while I’m sleeping.  If I could sleep and run a marathon at the same time, then I would be well on my way to a buff bod.

I’ve always liked the idea of stealth exercise.  Swimming is the closest I’ve ever gotten to it.  You feel great while you’re swimming laps, but don’t realize how much energy you’ve burned up until you get out of the pool.  Unfortunately I don’t have easy access to an indoor pool.  It was nice when I had the “Y” membership but Jerry whined and cried about it every time I went to the “Y,” because every minute I was at the pool was a minute I wasn’t available to fetch beer or otherwise cater to His Nibs. 

To hear him talk about it, I think somewhere back in the reptilian part of his brain he might have thought that other guys were “looking at” me in a bathing suit.  I think it’s funny he assumes that because I’m female that my partially clad body would cause other males to lust, (??? I’m not really lustworthy material by any standard????!!!!) but he fails to realize two very important truths- 1.) I purchase swim attire that affords me the most coverage I can get,  because 2.) there are laws in this country against cruel and unusual punishment.  Subjecting others to the visual of my incredibly pale, scarred skin is just plain nasty- nobody wants to see my stretch marks, surgical scars, varicose veins, burn marks, etc.  If I could find a swim top with sleeves I’d wear that too, so nobody would have to get an eyeful of my meaty arms.  As far as I can see, the visual of me in a bathing suit would motivate projectile vomiting rather than provide fodder for a hand party.