gratuitous self pity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More to come, very soon!

 

Entropy in Practical Application, All is Vanity, and Balance?

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Castles made of sand slip to the sea, but ill-maintained redneck houses are reclaimed by the swamp.   Entropy in action!  I think these guys thought they were going to put in a pool right next to the house.  It’s hard to see from this angle, but they dug a giant hole right next to the house for some mysterious reason.  Then the whole house started caving in and they filled in the hole again.   I’ll bet there’s not a level floor in that place, no running water, and there’s a roach colony of millions, but the satellite and big screen are working just fine.  Until the house falls in on the plasma TV, that is.  Central Ohio is all one big drained swamp.  Compromise your foundation at your peril.

I am one of those people who is all about practical application.  I seldom read fiction for that reason. I like a good story, but is it true?  Is there a practical lesson in it, or is there at least something funny, gross or macabre in it?  When I was much younger and had a lot more time on my hands, I read almost everything I could get my hands on- bodice rippers, porn-without-the-pictures, mystery-especially Agatha Christie, most of Stephen King’s novels, most of Tolkien’s works, but even then the bulk of my reading material consisted of my usual standards- scientific and historical non-fiction.

Sadly I’ve not read a fictional novel in years.  I really should broaden my horizons, and I would if I had more time for recreational reading.

I do read the Bible.  I really understand what the Teacher of Ecclesiastes was talking about.  Sometimes life seems futile and pointless and I feel like Sisyphus – I have to roll the boulder up the mountain every day only to wake up the next day and do the same pointless tasks over and over.  There truly is no satisfaction under the sun.  I get frustrated, lonely, tired and broke- and for what?  The only hope that there is purpose in life lies in the realization that it’s God’s plan and that there is a deeper meaning to life than just endless repetition and monotonous drudgery.  Sometimes it’s just really hard to see.

I couldn’t resist taking a pic of this bumper sticker, even though I managed to get my own reflection in the pic.  I have to amuse myself somehow.

On a much brighter note, the Journey show last Friday was beyond awesome.  I am a huge Journey fan and would love nothing more than to send myself back 30 years to be backstage with Steve Perry- believe that- but I am also a realist.  It’s not 1981.  Steve Perry is of the over 60 crowd, hip replacement and all.  As much as I would love to see him, and hear The Voice live, I don’t think he is physically able to tour and endure all that.  Arnel Pineda is worth seeing and hearing in his own right, and I don’t think I have ever heard Neal Schon or Jonathan Cain play better.  Journey 2011 is still very, very good.  I absolutely loved “Edge of the Moment,” which is one of the new songs from Eclipse.  I only wish they would have had time to play “Resonate” from Eclipse also, but if they would have played everything I would have wanted to hear they’d been playing all night and that’s simply not feasible- especially considering these guys are getting up in years.  Pity.

I only encountered two people who understood the t-shirt I wore to the show that says, “Neal Schon Afro Society” and has a pic of Neal from about 1977 with that ridiculous poofy ‘fro he had back then. (see the cover of Next to see what I mean- Neal is the one on the left)   But today I understand very well that a 56 year old guy with black hair is going to be coloring his hair, and the less hair one has the easier it is to keep it all one color.   Besides, a 23 year old guy looks dorky with a ‘fro like that.  A guy more than twice that age would look like Flippo the Clown with a ‘fro like that.  The ’70’s- I must say the hair and clothes were bad- but the music (grandiose, funky, fusion based rock, anyway) was good.

The nice part about this show was that everything was worth watching.  At no time did I feel compelled to make a run for snackies or to go to the john out of boredom!  Night Ranger was excellent- I particularly enjoyed Deen Castronuevo coming out to play drums during “Sister Christian.”  They also did a most wonderful rendition of Damn Yankees’ “High Enough”- even without Ted Nugent.  Foreigner was impressive as well- especially “Dirty White Boy” and “Jukebox Hero.”

You can’t turn back time, but you can learn to enjoy the moment for what it is.  I know some people might have been disappointed because they expected to see everything exactly as it was in the Big 80’s.  In some ways it was all that and more- perhaps with some different faces or arrangements or a few new twists, but who or what can remain the same forever?  Entropy, my friends- everything is moving ever closer to disorder and chaos. My boobs are heading a bit further south every day.  That’s a lovely thought.  Pink Floyd- in rather macabre Brit fashion- in the song “Time,”  put it as,  “one day closer to death.”  Might as well tell it like it is.  As for me, it was most therapeutic for once to simply sit back and enjoy the show.  Next time- if there is a next time- I really want to spring for the VIP tickets and perhaps get seats close enough to take reasonably visible pics.  You can almost see Neal in the big screen in this one.

The common wisdom about aging is that everything gets bigger, hairier and closer to the ground.  Except the tops of men’s heads, that is.  The tops of their heads might get bigger and closer to the ground, but the hair migrates to their ears.  No wonder I wondered for a moment what my Dad’s friends were doing at my class reunion, until I realized they were the guys I graduated with, and not the geezers Dad hangs out with.  Creepy.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entropy (n):

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

Twisted, Torrid and Tawdry, for the Love of Dirty Laundry, and Friends or Total Strangers?

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For being introverted almost to the point of being antisocial, I surprised myself in taking the initiative to go to my class reunion dinner.  There were activities planned for the entire weekend, but I know myself- a little social interaction goes a long way with me, especially in potentially awkward situations, and even more so in potentially awkward situations involving  other people and too much alcohol.   I can’t drink in public for a number of reasons, and I get enough of drunk-watching-as-entertainment at home.  I did party back in the day, but it lost its charm long ago.   Maybe I’m strange, but 25 years is a freaking long time, and I live in a completely different sphere than I did in the wonderful world of the mid-1980’s. 

Spuds is in the G&R, the stars are in the heavens and all that, but I’m not the same.  Me, circa 1986, would not even vaguely recognize me, today.  The 1986 me would probably be running for cover, screaming, “HOLY SHIT, I’ve become my mother!!” 

Some of the people I graduated with are almost exactly as I remember them.  Others have been dealt with even more cruelly by time and circumstance than I have been.  Some- or I should say most- I’d never recognized at all if not for the name tags.  Especially the guys.  I got there a bit early so I could watch people trickle in and perhaps gain my bearings.  I was shocked at how old some of the guys looked.  Jerry is 12 years older than me, but a few of these poor guys looked as if they had 20 years on him.  As cruel as it may sound, one thought that went through my head was, “Who are these geezers, and what happened to my friends?”

I don’t mean that in a malicious sort of way.  I know only too well that time has been rather cruel to me as well, even though I was never much to look at to begin with, and have always been proportioned like a mutant troll.  I am sure that not a few people looked at me and wondered what the hell happened.  I think in some ways we are all wondering just when we got so old.  I know I sort of expected everyone to look the same as I remembered, which isn’t terribly realistic. 

It is sort of sad in a way that I’ve really not kept touch with people over the years.  I do care, but I get busy, and I spend far too much time catering to Jerry and his high maintenance needs.  He made it very clear long ago that he really doesn’t want to socialize with any of my friends (frankly, I think he’s afraid of them seeing him when he’s shitfaced and acting like a horse’s ass) and I don’t socialize much anyway, so as soon as you know it, everyone I used to know is a geezer/cougar too, and their lives and circumstances have all changed. 

I made it a point not to get embroiled in anyone else’s scandals or juicy bits.  If someone were to investigate, and the more inquiring minds likely have, they can uncover all sorts of rather twisted, torrid and tawdry dirt on me. I’ve done my share of stupid things and made my share of really bad decisions.   Don Henley said it back in 1985- “We all know that crap is king, give us dirty laundry…”  The thing is I don’t have the heart to hold a 25 year grudge toward anyone, or to dredge up anyone’s sordid past. 

Over all, I think it was a healthy thing to reconnect for a moment, but above all, to be reminded that the past is exactly that, and for the most part, it’s a good thing.   I’m a lot more comfortable with myself now- although being in a room with close to a hundred people I’ve not seen in years did keep me more on guard than usual.  (Yet another reason why temperance befits me!) I did see some people in a different light which was also a good thing.  I may not have been one of the Beautiful People, but the line between me and them is not quite so well defined anymore. 

In some ways I like to think that I may have made some new friends. Even though I may have known them years ago, people change.  I am not the maudlin, huggy-kissy type.  I don’t  have the talent to just take up a decades-old conversation where I left off as if it were yesterday.  I don’t remember names well (I do a bit better with faces) and I know to some I might seem aloof, but even though I refrained from hugging and kissing, it was nice to see people again. 

I just couldn’t bring myself to swig on the community bottle of Boone’s Farm (acck) either.  I’ve had a pathological aversion to drinking after others (especially on a glass bottle) ever since I was about four, and my sister used to grab my pop bottle, take a big swig and backwash into it.   The thought of drinking other people’s spit and/or pre-chewed cud is one of the few things that just really completely gross me out.

I did have to take a pic of the “I Love Them Crabs” drink holder.  That is classic.  Some things do remain the same.

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

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

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

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

No Wash Underwear!

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

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

Spray On Hair!

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

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

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

Question:

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

Answer:

“It is certain.”

Is this damned thing broke?

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

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

Answer:

“Better not tell you now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whine Country Updates, An Idle Mind is the Devil’s Playground, and Fantasies from the Attic

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Ah, the good old days, when the air was dirty and sex was clean.  I vaguely remember the 70’s, if only for knowing that the cartoons were over once Soul Train came on, for the Hy Way Rollerena, and for the bad, scratchy, hot polyester clothes we had to wear.  But the 70’s were technically before my time (though I love the rock and metal from that era.)  By the time I figured out that there was more to procreation than French kissing, the 80’s were well underway.

I’ve been so busy that I’ve forgotten to follow up on a few interesting things.  Here’s the Cliff’s Notes version:

Uno the Shih-Tzu is in a very happy home (not mine) where he and his little buddy the Jack Russell can run and play together without any cats to torment.  I don’t think Isabel misses him.  He’s a good little dog, but I like my big girls, and I’m pretty sure Isabel is quite happy not getting humped.

I’m going to be nice and can the Hester Prynne references in regard to Steve-o’s baby mama.  I don’t think anyone troubles with branding unwed mothers with scarlet letters anymore.  If anything in this day of anything goes morality I have to admire her courage to seek support and to do the right things.  Steve-o wasn’t exactly planned either, and even though I was married to the sperm donor at the time, that’s pretty much all he was good for.  At least Steve-o is standing by her and wanting to be a real Dad to his kid, otherwise, he knows I will rip off his nuts, POMC or not.  I do like her, and I would not be terribly troubled if they did go ahead and get married.  I hope they do follow through on their confessed desire to be good parents and to stay together, especially for the poor child’s sake.   The Blessed Event should occur sometime around March 3rd.  Sucky, sucky, sucky time to have a birthday, especially if the poor child (aka: Boo-Boo) arrives on Feb. 29th so he/she only gets a birthday for others to forget every four years instead of getting to forget his/her birthday every year like everyone (almost always) conveniently forgets mine.  If I only aged a year when people (other than my dentist, the insurance agent and the BMV) remembered my birthday, I would be…four? 🙂

Maybe it’s a bit mean-spirited to refer to one’s impending grandchild as “Boo-Boo,” but I can’t help it.  The reference is just too cute, and too appropriate not to miss.

Grandma (and do I ever miss my grandmothers now that I’m fixing to become one) always used to say that an idle mind is the devil’s playground.  I would have to assume that’s a related corollary to the expression, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” which is true as well.  I don’t get very many idle mind days, and that’s probably a good thing, because with my sense of humor, an idle mind will only lead to mischief.  By some fluke of nature today is the first day in a long time that I have not been positively scrambled and buried and insane.  I’m just trying to sort through the wreckage and do a bit of mental housecleaning for the time being.

I sort of hope little Boo-Boo turns out to be a girl.  That way if she has red and/or curly hair it won’t be as big of a tragedy.  I know they want a little boy, but boys’ clothes are boring, you can’t do much with their hair (other than mohawks or fauxhawks) and I know where to find all sorts of adorable Hello Kitty stuff.  I don’t think Steve-o would be terribly thrilled to see his little boy with HK barrettes in his hair or playing with various HK toys, but I don’t think he would mind his little girl playing with them.  Maybe we’ll get a bonus and there will be two Boo-Boos, a boy and a girl, but it would really be cruel for me to wish twins on them especially when it is going to be enough of a challenge for them to deal with one.

On the bright side, it is another day above ground and vertical.

I have to wonder if the 80’s version of me would want to kick my ass right now.  Maybe that’s a weird question, but I had always hoped I would get around to doing some of the exciting things I wanted to do such as world travel, intellectual pursuits, and so forth, and I’ve not gotten there.  I am more than halfway through life at least, with not a whole lot to show for it.  I have my fantasies but they only go so far.  I don’t even have time to sort them out and write them down which sucks.  I would love to tell the stories that sift through my mind- and I fully intend to…when I get a minute.  Perhaps that is the most elusive fantasy of all.

 

 

Now there’s a disturbing visual for you!

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

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Suffice to say my life is insane.

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

I mean, who really wants a epitaph that says:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

 

 

Spare me from the ’80’s hair!

PRANK SIGN: CONSERVE toilet paper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord have mercy.  They are going to need it.